Detective Kennedy's Cases. Arthur B. Reeve

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      "Do you think he was right?" shot out Kennedy quickly, eying Dr. Ross keenly.

      "No, emphatically, no; he was not right," replied the doctor, meeting Craig's scrutiny without flinching. "Mrs. Maitland," he went on more slowly as if carefully weighing every word, "belongs to a large and growing class of women in whom, to speak frankly, sex seems to be suppressed. She is a very handsome and attractive woman—you have seen her? Yes? You must have noticed, though, that she is really frigid, cold, intellectual."

      The doctor was so sharp and positive about his first statement and so careful in phrasing the second that I, at least, jumped to the conclusion that Maitland might have been right, after all. I imagined that Kennedy, too, had his suspicions of the doctor.

      "Have you ever heard of or used cobra venom in any of your medical work?" he asked casually.

      Dr. Ross wheeled in his chair, surprised.

      "Why, yes," he replied quickly. "You know that it is a test for blood diseases, one of the most recently discovered and used parallel to the old tests. It is known as the Weil cobra-venom test."

      "Do you use it often?"

      "N-no," he replied. "My practice ordinarily does not lie in that direction. I used it not long ago, once, though. I have a patient under my care, a well-known club-man. He came to me originally—"

      "Arnold Masterson?" asked Craig.

      "Yes—how did you know his name?"

      "Guessed it," replied Craig laconically, as if he knew much more than he cared to tell. "He was a friend of Mrs. Maitland's, was he not?"

      "I should say not," replied Dr. Ross, without hesitation. He was quite ready to talk without being urged. "Ordinarily," he explained confidentially, "professional ethics seals my lips, but in this instance, since you seem to know so much, I may as well tell more."

      I hardly knew whether to take him at his face value or not. Still he went on: "Mrs. Maitland is, as I have hinted at, what we specialists would call a consciously frigid but unconsciously passionate woman. As an intellectual woman she suppresses nature. But nature does and will assert herself, we believe. Often you will find an intellectual woman attracted unreasonably to a purely physical man—I mean, speaking generally, not in particular cases. You have read Ellen Key, I presume? Well, she expresses it well in some of the things she has written about affinities. Now, don't misunderstand me," he cautioned. "I am speaking generally, not of this individual case."

      I was following Dr. Ross closely. When he talked so, he was a most fascinating man.

      "Mrs. Maitland," he resumed, "has been much troubled by her dreams, as you have heard, doubtless. The other day she told me of another dream. In it she seemed to be attacked by a bull, which suddenly changed into a serpent. I may say that I had asked her to make a record of her dreams, as well as other data, which I thought might be of use in the study and treatment of her nervous troubles. I readily surmised that not the dream, but something else, perhaps some recollection which it recalled, worried her. By careful questioning I discovered that it was—a broken engagement."

      "Yes," prompted Kennedy.

      "The bull-serpent, she admitted, had a half-human face—the face of Arnold Masterson!"

      Was Dr. Ross desperately shifting suspicion from himself? I asked.

      "Very strange—very," ruminated Kennedy. "That reminds me again. I wonder if you could let me have a sample of this cobra venom?"

      "Surely. Excuse me; I'll get you some."

      The doctor had scarcely shut the door when Kennedy began prowling around quietly. In the waiting-room, which was now deserted, stood a typewriter.

      Quickly Craig ran over the keys of the machine until he had a sample of every character. Then he reached into drawer of the desk and hastily stuffed several blank sheets of paper into his pocket.

      "Of course I need hardly caution you in handling this," remarked Dr. Ross, as he returned. "You are as well acquainted as I am with the danger attending its careless and unscientific uses."

      "I am, and I thank you very much," said Kennedy. We were standing in the waiting-room.

      "You will keep me advised of any progress you make in the case?" the doctor asked. "It complicates, as you can well imagine, my treatment of Mrs. Maitland."

      "I shall be glad to do so," replied Kennedy, as we departed.

      An hour later found us in a handsomely appointed bachelor apartment in a fashionable hotel overlooking the lower entrance to the Park.

      "Mr. Masterson, I believe?" inquired Kennedy, as a slim, debonair, youngish-old man entered the room in which we had been waiting.

      "I am that same," he smiled. "To what am I indebted for this pleasure?"

      We had been gazing at the various curios with which he had made the room a veritable den of the connoisseur.

      "You have evidently travelled considerably," remarked Kennedy, avoiding the question for the time.

      "Yes, I have been back in this country only a few weeks," Masterson replied, awaiting the answer to the first question.

      "I called," proceeded Kennedy, "in the hope that you, Mr. Masterson, might be able to shed some light on the rather peculiar case of Mr. Maitland, of whose death, I suppose, you have already heard."

      "I?"

      "You have known Mrs. Maitland a long time?" ignored Kennedy.

      "We went to school together."

      "And were engaged, were you not?"

      Masterson looked at Kennedy in ill-concealed surprise.

      "Yes. But how did you know that? It was a secret—only between us two—I thought. She broke it off—not I."

      "She broke off the engagement?" prompted Kennedy.

      "Yes—a story about an escapade of mine and all that sort of thing, you know—but, by Jove! I like your nerve, sir." Masterson frowned, then added: "I prefer not to talk of that. There are some incidents in a man's life, particularly where a woman is concerned, that are forbidden."

      "Oh, I beg pardon," hastened Kennedy, "but, by the way, you would have no objection to making a statement regarding your trip abroad and your recent return to this country—subsequent to—ah—the incident which we will not refer to?"

      "None whatever. I left New York in 1908, disgusted with everything in general, and life here in particular—"

      "Would you object to jotting it down so that I can get it straight?" asked Kennedy. "Just a brief résumé, you know."

      "No. Have you a pen or a pencil?"

      "I think you might as well dictate it; it will take only a minute to run it off on the typewriter."

      Masterson rang the bell. A young man appeared noiselessly.

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