Ben Jonson - "Volpone; Or, The Fox"

Edward Pason Roe - "What Can She Do?"

Thomas Hardy - "Two on a Tower"

William Shakespeare - "The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra"

The Treasure Train

A >> Arthur B. Reeve >> The Treasure Train




"Careful, Hampton," cautioned the elder man.

"I'd like to see him," pursued Craig to the younger. "You know
him?"

"Know him? I should say I do. Good-looking, good practice, and all
that, but--why, he must have hypnotized that girl! Cynthia thinks
he's wonderful."

"I'd like to see him," suggested Craig.

"Very well," agreed Hampton, taking him at his word. "Much as I
dislike the fellow, I have no objection to going down to his
beauty-parlor with you."

"Thank you," returned Craig, as we excused ourselves and left the
elder Doctor Haynes.

Several times on our journey down Hampton could not resist some
reference to Chapelle for commercializing the profession, remarks
which sounded strangely old on his lips.

Chapelle's office, we found, was in a large building on Fifth
Avenue in the new shopping district, where hundreds of thousands
of women passed almost daily. He called the place a Dermatological
Institute, but, as Hampton put it, he practised "decorative
surgery."

As we entered one door, we saw that patients left by another.
Evidently, as Craig whispered, when sixty sought to look like
sixteen the seekers did not like to come in contact with one
another.

We waited some time in a little private room. At last Doctor
Chapelle himself appeared, a rather handsome man with the manner
that one instinctively feels appeals to the ladies.

He shook hands with young Haynes, and I could detect no hostility
on Chapelle's part, but rather a friendly interest in a younger
member of the medical profession.

Again I was thrown forward as a buffer. I was their excuse for
being there. However, a newspaper experience gives you one thing,
if no other--assurance.

"I believe you have a patient, a Miss Virginia Blakeley?" I
ventured.

"Miss Blakeley? Oh yes, and her sister, also."

The mention of the names was enough. I was no longer needed as a
buffer.

"Chapelle," blurted out Hampton, "you must have done something to
her when you treated her face. There's a little red spot over her
nose that hasn't healed yet."

Kennedy frowned at the impetuous interruption. Yet it was perhaps
the best thing that could have happened.

"So," returned Chapelle, drawing back and placing his head on one
side as he nodded it with each word, "you think I've spoiled her
looks? Aren't the freckles gone?"

"Yes," retorted Hampton, bitterly, "but on her face is this new
disfigurement."

"That?" shrugged Chapelle. "I know nothing of that--nor of the
trance. I have only my specialty."

Calm though he appeared outwardly, one could see that Chapelle was
plainly worried. Under the circumstances, might not his
professional reputation be at stake? What if a hint like this got
abroad among his rich clientele?

I looked about his shop and wondered just how much of a faker he
was. Once or twice I had heard of surgeons who had gone
legitimately into this sort of thing. But the common story was
that of the swindler--or worse. I had heard of scores of cases of
good looks permanently ruined, seldom of any benefit. Had Chapelle
ignorantly done something that would leave its scar forever? Or
was he one of the few who were honest and careful?

Whatever the case, Kennedy had accomplished his purpose. He had
seen Chapelle. If he were really guilty of anything the chances
were all in favor of his betraying it by trying to cover it up.
Deftly suppressing Hampton, we managed to beat a retreat without
showing our hands any further.

"Humph!" snorted Hampton, as we rode down in the elevator and
hopped on a 'bus to go up-town. "Gave up legitimate medicine and
took up this beauty doctoring--it's unprofessional, I tell you.
Why, he even advertises!"

We left Hampton and returned to the laboratory, though Craig had
no present intention of staying there. His visit was merely for
the purpose of gathering some apparatus, which included a Crookes
tube, carefully packed, a rheostat, and some other paraphernalia
which we divided. A few moments later we were on our way again to
the Blakeley mansion.

No change had taken place in the condition of the patient, and
Mrs. Blakeley met us anxiously. Nor was the anxiety wholly over
her daughter's condition, for there seemed to be an air of relief
when Kennedy told her that we had little to report.

Up-stairs in the sick-room, Craig set silently to work, attaching
his apparatus to an electric-light socket from which he had
unscrewed the bulb. As he proceeded I saw that it was, as I had
surmised, his new X-ray photographing machine which he had
brought. Carefully, from several angles, he took photographs of
Virginia's head, then, without saying a word, packed up his kit
and started away.

We were passing down the hall, after leaving Mrs. Blakeley, when a
figure stepped out from behind a portiere. It was Cynthia, who had
been waiting to see us alone.

"You--don't think Doctor Chapelle had anything to do with it?" she
asked, in a hoarse whisper.

"Then Hampton Haynes has been here?" avoided Kennedy.

"Yes," she admitted, as though the question had been quite
logical. "He told me of your visit to Carl."

There was no concealment, now, of her anxiety. Indeed, I saw no
reason why there should be. It was quite natural that the girl
should worry over her lover, if she thought there was even a haze
of suspicion in Kennedy's mind.

"Really I have found out nothing yet," was the only answer Craig
gave, from which I readily deduced that he was well satisfied to
play the game by pitting each against all, in the hope of
gathering here and there a bit of the truth. "As soon as I find
out anything I shall let you and your mother know. And you must
tell me everything, too."

He paused to emphasize the last words, then slowly turned again
toward the door. From the corner of my eye I saw Cynthia take a
step after him, pause, then take another.

"Oh, Professor Kennedy," she called.

Craig turned.

"There's something I forgot," she continued. "There's something
wrong with mother!" She paused, then resumed: "Even before
Virginia was taken down with this--illness I saw a change. She is
worried. Oh, Professor Kennedy, what is it? We have all been so
happy. And now--Virgie, mother--all I have in the world. What
shall I do?"

"Just what do you mean?" asked Kennedy, gently.

"I don't know. Mother has been so different lately. And now, every
night, she goes out."

"Where?" encouraged Kennedy, realizing that his plan was working.

"I don't know. If she would only come back looking happier." She
was sobbing, convulsively, over she knew not what.

"Miss Blakeley," said Kennedy, taking her hand between both of
his, "only trust me. If it is in my power I shall bring you all
out of this uncertainty that haunts you."

She could only murmur her thanks as we left.

"It is strange," ruminated Kennedy, as we sped across the city
again to the laboratory. "We must watch Mrs. Blakeley."

That was all that was said. Although I had no inkling of what was
back of it all, I felt quite satisfied at having recognized the
mystery even on stumbling on it as I had.

In the laboratory, as soon as he could develop the skiagraphs he
had taken, Kennedy began a minute study of them. It was not long
before he looked over at me with the expression I had come to
recognize when he found something important. I went over and
looked at the radiograph which he was studying. To me it was
nothing but successive gradations of shadows. But to one who had
studied roentgenography as Kennedy had each minute gradation of
light and shade had its meaning.

"You see," pointed out Kennedy, tracing along one of the shadows
with a fine-pointed pencil, and then along a corresponding
position on another standard skiagraph which he already had,
"there is a marked diminution in size of the sella turcica, as it
is called. Yet there is no evidence of a tumor." For several
moments he pondered deeply over the photographs. "And it is
impossible to conceive of any mechanical pressure sufficient to
cause such a change," he added.

Unable to help him on the problem, whatever it might be, I watched
him pacing up and down the laboratory.

"I shall have to take that picture over again--under different
circumstances," he remarked, finally, pausing and looking at his
watch. "To-night we must follow this clue which Cynthia has given
us. Call a cab, Walter."

We took a stand down the block from the Blakeley mansion, near a
large apartment, where the presence of a cab would not attract
attention. If there is any job I despise it is shadowing. One must
keep his eyes riveted on a house, for, once let the attention
relax and it is incredible how quickly any one may get out and
disappear.

Our vigil was finally rewarded when we saw Mrs. Blakeley emerge
and hurry down the street. To follow her was easy, for she did not
suspect that she was being watched, and went afoot. On she walked,
turning off the Drive and proceeding rapidly toward the region of
cheap tenements. She paused before one, and as our cab cruised
leisurely past we saw her press a button, the last on the right-
hand side, enter the door, and start up the stairs.

Instantly Kennedy signaled our driver to stop and together we
hopped out and walked back, cautiously entering the vestibule. The
name in the letter-box was "Mrs. Reba Rinehart." What could it
mean?

Just then another cab stopped up the street, and as we turned to
leave the vestibule Kennedy drew back. It was too late, however,
not to be seen. A man had just alighted and, in turn, had started
back, also realizing that it was too late. It was Chapelle! There
was nothing to do but to make the best of it.

"Shadowing the shadowers?" queried Kennedy, keenly watching the
play of his features under the arc-light of the street.

"Miss Cynthia asked me to follow her mother the other night," he
answered, quite frankly. "And I have been doing so ever since."

It was a glib answer, at any rate, I thought.

"Then, perhaps you know something of Reba Rinehart, too," bluffed
Kennedy.

Chapelle eyed us a moment, in doubt how much we knew. Kennedy
played a pair of deuces as if they had been four aces instead.

"Not much," replied Chapelle, dubiously. "I know that Mrs.
Blakeley has been paying money to the old woman, who seems to be
ill. Once I managed to get in to see her. It's a bad case of
pernicious anemia, I should say. A neighbor told me she had been
to the college hospital, had been one of Doctor Haynes's cases,
but that he had turned her over to his son. I've seen Hampton
Haynes here, too."

There was an air of sincerity about Chapelle's words. But, then, I
reflected that there had also been a similar ring to what we had
heard Hampton say. Were they playing a game against each other?
Perhaps--but what was the game? What did it all mean and why
should Mrs. Blakeley pay money to an old woman, a charity patient?

There was no solution. Both Kennedy and Chapelle, by a sort of
tacit consent, dismissed their cabs, and we strolled on over
toward Broadway, watching one another, furtively. We parted
finally, and Craig and I went up to our apartment, where he sat
for hours in a brown study. There was plenty to think about even
so far in the affair. He may have sat up all night. At any rate,
he roused me early in the morning.

"Come over to the laboratory," he said. "I want to take that X-ray
machine up there again to Blakeley's. Confound it! I hope it's not
too late."

I lost no time in joining him and we were at the house long before
any reasonable hour for visitors.

Kennedy asked for Mrs. Blakeley and hurriedly set up the X-ray
apparatus. "I wish you would place that face mask which she was
wearing exactly as it was before she became ill," he asked.

Her mother did as Kennedy directed, replacing the rubber mask as
Virginia had worn it.

"I want you to preserve that mask," directed Kennedy, as he
finished taking his pictures. "Say nothing about it to any one. In
fact, I should advise putting it in your family safe for the
present."

Hastily we drove back to the laboratory and Kennedy set to work
again developing the second set of skiagraphs. I had not long to
wait, this time, for him to study them. His first glance brought
me over to him as he exclaimed loudly.

At the point just opposite the sore which he had observed on
Virginia's forehead, and overlying the sella turcica, there was a
peculiar spot on the radiograph.

"Something in that mask has affected the photographic plate," he
explained, his face now animated.

Before I could ask him what it was he had opened a cabinet where
he kept many new things which he studied in his leisure moments.
From it I saw him take several glass ampules which he glanced at
hastily and shoved into his pocket as we heard a footstep out in
the hall. It was Chapelle, very much worried. Could it be that he
knew his society clientele was at stake, I wondered. Or was it
more than that?

"She's dead!" he cried. "The old lady died last night!"

Without a word Kennedy hustled us out of the laboratory, stuffing
the X-ray pictures into his pocket, also, as we went.

As we hurried down-town Chapelle told us how he had tried to keep
a watch by bribing one of the neighbors, who had just informed him
of the tragedy.

"It was her heart," said one of the neighbors, as we entered the
poor apartment. "The doctor said so."

"Anemia," insisted Chapelle, looking carefully at the body.

Kennedy bent over, also, and examined the poor, worn frame. As he
did so he caught sight of a heavy linen envelope tucked under her
pillow. He pulled it out gently and opened it. Inside were several
time-worn documents and letters. He glanced over them hastily,
unfolding first a letter.

"Walter," he whispered, furtively, looking at the neighbors in the
room and making sure that none of them had seen the envelope
already. "Read these. That's her story."

One glance was sufficient. The first was a letter from old Stuart
Blakeley. Reba Rinehart had been secretly married to him--and
never divorced. One paper after another unfolded her story.

I thought quickly. Then she had had a right in the Blakeley
millions. More than that, the Blakeleys themselves had none, at
least only what came to them by Blakeley's will.

I read on, to see what, if any, contest she had intended to make.
And as I read I could picture old Stuart Blakeley to myself--
strong, direct, unscrupulous, a man who knew what he wanted and
got it, dominant, close-mouthed, mysterious. He had understood and
estimated the future of New York. On that he had founded his
fortune.

According to the old lady's story, the marriage was a complete
secret. She had demanded marriage when he had demanded her. He had
pointed out the difficulties. The original property had come to
him and would remain in his hands only on condition that he
married one of his own faith. She was not of the faith and
declined to become so. There had been other family reasons, also.
They had been married, with the idea of keeping it secret until he
could arrange his affairs so that he could safely acknowledge her.

It was, according to her story, a ruse. When she demanded
recognition he replied that the marriage was invalid, that the
minister had been unfrocked before the ceremony. She was not in
law his wife and had no claim, he asserted. But he agreed to
compromise, in spite of it all. If she would go West and not
return or intrude, he would make a cash settlement. Disillusioned,
she took the offer and went to California. Somehow, he understood
that she was dead. Years later he married again.

Meanwhile she had invested her settlement, had prospered, had even
married herself, thinking the first marriage void. Then her second
husband died and evil times came. Blakeley was dead, but she came
East. Since then she had been fighting to establish the validity
of the first marriage and hence her claim to dower rights. It was
a moving story.

As we finished reading, Kennedy gathered the papers together and
took charge of them. Taking Chapelle, who by this time was in a
high state of excitement over both the death and the discovery,
Kennedy hurried to the Blakeley mansion, stopping only long enough
to telephone to Doctor Haynes and his son.

Evidently the news had spread. Cynthia Blakeley met us in the
hall, half frightened, yet much relieved.

"Oh, Professor Kennedy," she cried, "I don't know what it is, but
mother seems so different. What is it all about?"

As Kennedy said nothing, she turned to Chapelle, whom I was
watching narrowly. "What is it, Carl?" she whispered.

"I--I can't tell," he whispered back, guardedly. Then, with an
anxious glance at the rest of us, "Is your sister any better?"

Cynthia's face clouded. Relieved though she was about her mother,
there was still that horror for Virginia.

"Come," I interrupted, not wishing to let Chapelle get out of my
sight, yet wishing to follow Kennedy, who had dashed up-stairs.

I found Craig already at the bedside of Virginia. He had broken
one of the ampules and was injecting some of the extract in it
into the sleeping girl's arm. Mrs. Blakeley bent over eagerly as
he did so. Even in her manner she was changed. There was anxiety
for Virginia yet, but one could feel that a great weight seemed to
be lifted from her.

So engrossed was I in watching Kennedy that I did not hear Doctor
Haynes and Hampton enter. Chapelle heard, however, and turned.

For a moment he gazed at Hampton. Then with a slight curl of the
lip he said, in a low tone, "Is it strictly ethical to treat a
patient for disease of the heart when she is suffering from
anemia--if you have an interest in the life and death of the
patient?"

I watched Hampton's face closely. There was indignation in every
line of it. But before he could reply Doctor Haynes stepped
forward.

"My son was right in the diagnosis," he almost shouted, shaking a
menacing finger at Chapelle. "To come to the point, sir, explain
that mark on Miss Virginia's forehead!"

"Yes," demanded Hampton, also taking a step toward the beauty
doctor, "explain it--if you dare."

Cynthia suppressed a little cry of fear. For a moment I thought
that the two young men would forget everything in the heat of
their feelings.

"Just a second," interposed Kennedy, quickly stepping between
them. "Let me do the talking." There was something commanding
about his tone as he looked from one to the other of us.

"The trouble with Miss Virginia," he added, deliberately, "seems
to lie in one of what the scientists have lately designated the
'endocrine glands'--in this case the pituitary. My X-ray pictures
show that conclusively.

"Let me explain for the benefit of the rest. The pituitary is an
oval glandular body composed of two lobes and a connecting area,
which rest in the sella turcica, enveloped by a layer of tissue,
about under this point." He indicated the red spot on her forehead
as he spoke. "It is, as the early French surgeons called it,
l'organe enigmatique. The ancients thought it discharged the
pituita, or mucus, into the nose. Most scientists of the past
century asserted that it was a vestigial relic of prehistoric
usefulness. To-day we know better.

"One by one the functions of the internal secretions are being
discovered. Our variously acquired bits of information concerning
the ductless glands lie before us like the fragments of a modern
picture puzzle. And so, I may tell you, in connection with recent
experimental studies of the role of the pituitary, Doctor Cushing
and other collaborators at Johns Hopkins have noticed a marked
tendency to pass into a profoundly lethargic state when the
secretion of the pituitary is totally or nearly so removed."

Kennedy now had every eye riveted on him as he deftly led the
subject straight to the case of the poor girl before us.

"This," he added, with a wave of his hand toward her, "is much
like what is called the Frohlich syndrome--the lethargy, the
subnormal temperature, slow pulse, and respiration, lowered blood
pressure, and insensitivity, the growth of fat and the loss of sex
characteristics. It has a name--dystrophia adiposogenitalis."

He nodded to Doctor Haynes, but did not pause. "This case bears a
striking resemblance to the pronounced natural somnolence of
hibernation. And induced hypopituitarism--under activity of the
gland--produces a result just like natural hibernation.
Hibernation has nothing to do with winter, or with food,
primarily; it is connected in some way with this little gland
under the forehead.

"As the pituitary secretion is lessened, the blocking action of
the fatigue products in the body be-comes greater and morbid
somnolence sets in. There is a high tolerance of carbohydrates
which are promptly stored as fat. I am surprised, Doctor Haynes,
that you did not recognize the symptoms."

A murmur from Mrs. Blakeley cut short Doctor Haynes's reply. I
thought I noticed a movement of the still face on the white bed.

"Virgie! Virgie!" called Mrs. Blakeley, dropping on her knee
beside her daughter.

"I'm here--mother!"

Virginia's eyes opened ever so slightly. Her face turned just an
inch or two. She seemed to be making a great effort, but it lasted
only a moment. Then she slipped back into the strange condition
that had baffled skilled physicians and surgeons for nearly a
week.

"The sleep is being dispelled," said Kennedy, quietly placing his
hand on Mrs. Blakeley's shoulder. "It is a sort of semi-
consciousness now and the improvement should soon be great."

"And that?" I asked, touching the empty ampule from which he had
injected the contents into her.

"Pituitrin--the extract of the anterior lobe of the pituitary
body. Some one who had an object in removing her temporarily
probably counted on restoring her to her former blooming womanhood
by pituitrin--and by removing the cause of the trouble."

Kennedy reached into his pocket and drew forth the second X-ray
photograph he had taken. "Mrs. Blakeley, may I trouble you to get
that beauty mask which your daughter wore?"

Mechanically Mrs. Blakeley obeyed. I expected Chapelle to object,
but not a word broke the death-like stillness.

"The narcolepsy," continued Kennedy, taking the mask, "was due, I
find, to something that affected the pituitary gland. I have here
a photograph of her taken when she was wearing the mask." He ran
his finger lightly over the part just above the eyes. "Feel that
little lump, Walter," he directed.

I did so. It was almost imperceptible, but there was something.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Located in one of the best protected and most inaccessible parts
of the body," Kennedy considered, slowly, "how could the pituitary
be reached? If you will study my skiagraph, you will see how I got
my first clue. There was something over that spot which caused the
refractory sore. What was it? Radium--carefully placed in the mask
with guards of lead foil in such a way as to protect the eyes, but
direct the emission full at the gland which was to be affected,
and the secretions stopped."

Chapelle gave a gasp. He was pale and agitated.

"Some of you have already heard of Reba Rinehart," shot out
Kennedy, suddenly changing the subject.

Mrs. Blakeley could not have been more astounded if a bomb had
dropped before her. Still kneeling before Virginia's bed, she
turned her startled face at Kennedy, clasping her hands in appeal.

"It was for my girls that I tried to buy her off--for their good
name--their fortune--their future," she cried, imploringly.

Kennedy bent down, "I know that is all," he reassured, then,
facing us, went on: "Behind that old woman was a secret of
romantic interest. She was contemplating filing suit in the courts
to recover a widow's interest in the land on which now stand the
homes of millionaires, hotel palaces, luxurious apartments, and
popular theaters--millions of dollars' worth of property."

Cynthia moved over and drew her arms about the convulsed figure of
her mother.

"Some one else knew of this old marriage of Stuart Blakeley,"
proceeded Kennedy, "knew of Reba Rinehart, knew that she might die
at any moment. But until she died none of the Blakeleys could be
entirely sure of their fortune."

It flashed over me that Chapelle might have conceived the whole
scheme, seeking to gain the entire fortune for Cynthia.

"Who was interested enough to plot this postponement of the
wedding until the danger to the fortune was finally removed?" I
caught sight of Hampton Haynes, his eyes riveted on the face on
the bed before us.

Virginia stirred again. This time her eyes opened wider. As if in
a dream she caught sight of the face of her lover and smiled
wanly.

Could it have been Hampton? It seemed incredible.

"The old lady is dead," pursued Kennedy, tensely. "Her dower right
died with her. Nothing can be gained by bringing her case back
again--except to trouble the Blakeleys in what is rightfully
theirs."

Gathering up the beauty mask, the X-ray photographs, and the
papers of Mrs. Rinehart, Kennedy emphasized with them the words as
he whipped them out suddenly.

"Postponing the marriage, at the possible expense of Chapelle,
until Reba Rinehart was dead, and trusting to a wrong diagnosis
and Hampton's inexperience as the surest way of bringing that
result about quickly, it was your inordinate ambition for your
son, Doctor Haynes, that led you on. I shall hold these proofs
until Virginia Blakeley is restored completely to health and
beauty."

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