The Treasure-Train

by Arthur B. Reeve

  III

  THE SOUL-ANALYSIS

  "Here's the most remarkable appeal," observed Kennedy, one morning, ashe tossed over to me a letter. "What do you make of that?" It read:

  MONTROSE, CONN.

  MY DEAR PROFESSOR KENNEDY:

  You do not know me, but I have heard a great deal about you. Please, Ibeg of you, do not disregard this letter. At least try to verify theappeal I am making.

  I am here at the Belleclaire Sanatorium, run by Dr. Bolton Burr, inMontrose. But it is not a real sanatorium. It is really a privateasylum.

  Let me tell my story briefly. After my baby was born I devoted myselfto it. But, in spite of everything, it died. Meanwhile my husbandneglected me terribly. After the baby's death I was a nervous wreck,and I came up here to rest.

  Now I find I am being held here as an insane patient. I cannot get out.I do not even know whether this letter will reach you. But thechambermaid here has told me she will post it for me.

  I am ill and nervous--a wreck, but not insane, although they will tellyou that the twilight-sleep treatment affected my mind. But what ishappening here will eventually drive me insane if some one does notcome to my rescue.

  Cannot you get in to see me as a doctor or friend? I will leave all toyou after that.

  Yours anxiously,

  JANET (MRS. ROGER) CRANSTON.

  "What do you make of it yourself?" I returned, handing back the letter."Are you going to take it up?" He slowly looked over the letter again.

  "Judging by the handwriting," he remarked, thoughtfully, "I should saythat the writer is laboring under keen excitement--though there is noevidence of insanity on the face of it. Yes; I think I'll take up thecase."

  "But how are you going to get in?" I asked. "They'll never admit youwillingly."

  Kennedy pondered a minute. "I'll get in, all right," he said, atlength; "come on--I'm going to call on Roger Cranston first."

  "Roger Cranston?" I repeated, dumfounded. "Why, he'll never help you!Ten to one he's in on it."

  "We'll have to take a chance," returned Kennedy, hurrying me out of thelaboratory.

  Roger Cranston was a well-known lawyer and man about town. We found himin his office on lower Broadway. He was young anddistinguished-looking, which probably accounted for the fact that hisoffice had become a sort of fashionable court of domestic relations.

  "I'm a friend of Dr. Bolton Burr, of Montrose," introduced Kennedy.Cranston looked at him keenly, but Kennedy was a good actor. "I havebeen studying some of the patients at the sanatorium, and I have seenMrs. Cranston there."

  "Indeed!" responded Cranston. "I'm all broken up by it myself."

  I could not resist thinking that he took it very calmly, however.

  "I should like very much to make what we call a psychanalysis of Mrs.Cranston's mental condition," Kennedy explained.

  "A psychanalysis?" repeated Cranston.

  "Yes; you know it is a new system. In the field of abnormal psychology,the soul-analysis is of first importance. To-day, this study is of thegreatest help in neurology and psychiatry. Only, I can't make itwithout the consent of the natural guardian of the patient. Doctor Burrtells me that you will have no objection."

  Cranston thoughtfully studied the wall opposite.

  "Well," he returned, slowly, "they tell me that without treatment shewill soon be hopelessly insane--perhaps dangerously so. That is all Iknow. I am not a specialist. If Doctor Burr--" He paused.

  "If you can give me just a card," urged Kennedy, "that is all DoctorBurr wishes."

  Cranston wrote hastily on the back of one of his cards what Kennedydictated.

  Please allow Doctor Kennedy to make a psychanalysis of my wife's mental condition.

  "You will let me know--if there is--any hope?" he asked.

  "As soon as I can," replied Kennedy, "I'll let you have a copy of myreport."

  Cranston thanked us and bowed us to the door suavely.

  "Well," I remarked, as we rode down in the elevator, "that was clever.He fell for it, too. You're an artist. Do you think he was posing?"

  Kennedy shrugged his shoulders.

  We lost no time in getting the first train for Montrose, beforeCranston had time to reconsider and call up Doctor Burr.

  The Belleclaire Sanatorium was on the outskirts of the town. It was anold stone house, rather dingy, and surrounded by a high stone wallsurmounted by sharp pickets.

  Dr. Bolton Burr, who was at the head of the institution, met us in theplainly furnished reception-room which also served as his office.Through a window we could see some of the patients walking or sittingabout on a small stretch of scraggly grass between the house and thewall.

  Doctor Burr was a tall and commanding-looking man with a Vandyke beard,and one would instinctively have picked him out anywhere as a physician.

  "I believe you have a patient here--Mrs. Roger Cranston," beganKennedy, after the usual formalities. Doctor Burr eyed us askance."I've been asked by Mr. Cranston to make an examination of his wife,"pursued Craig, presenting the card which he had obtained from RogerCranston.

  "H'm!" mused Doctor Burr, looking quickly from the card to Kennedy witha searching glance.

  "I wish you would tell me something of the case before I see her," wenton Kennedy, with absolute assurance.

  "Well," temporized Doctor Burr, twirling the card, "Mrs. Cranston cameto me after the death of her child. She was in a terrible state. But weare slowly building up her shattered nerves by plain, simple living anda tonic."

  "Was she committed by her husband?" queried Kennedy, unexpectedly.

  Whether or not Doctor Burr felt suspicious of us I could not tell. Buthe seemed eager to justify himself.

  "I have the papers committing her to my care," he said, rising andopening a safe in the corner.

  He laid before us a document in which appeared the names of RogerCranston and Julia Giles.

  "Who is this Julia Giles?" asked Kennedy, after he had read thedocument.

  "One of our nurses," returned the doctor. "She has had Mrs. Cranstonunder observation ever since she arrived."

  "I should like to see both Miss Giles and Mrs. Cranston," insistedKennedy. "It is not that Mr. Cranston is in any way dissatisfied withyour treatment, but he thought that perhaps I might be of someassistance to you."

  Kennedy's manner was ingratiating but firm, and he hurried on, lest itshould occur to Doctor Burr to call up Cranston. The doctor, stilltwirling the card, finally led us through the wide central hall and upan old-fashioned winding staircase to a large room on the second floor.

  He tapped at the door, which was opened, disclosing an interiortastefully furnished.

  Doctor Burr introduced us to Miss Giles, conveying the impression,which Kennedy had already given, that he was a specialist, and I hisassistant.

  Janet Cranston was a young and also remarkably beautiful girl. Onecould see traces of sorrow in her face, which was exceedingly, thoughnot unpleasingly, pale. The restless brilliancy of her eyes spoke ofsome physical, if not psychical, disorder. She was dressed in deepmourning, which heightened her pallor and excited a feeling of mingledrespect and interest. Thick brown coils of chestnut hair were arrangedin such a manner as to give an extremely youthful appearance to herdelicate face. Her emotions were expressed by the constant motion ofher slender fingers.

  Miss Giles was a striking woman of an entirely different type. Sheseemed to be exuberant with health, as though nursing had taught hernot merely how to take care of others, but had given her the secret ofcaring, first of all, for herself.

  I could see, as Doctor Burr introduced us to his patient, that Mrs.Cranston instantly recognized Kennedy's interest in her case. Shereceived us with a graceful courtesy, but she betrayed no undueinterest that might excite suspicion, nor was there any hint given ofthe note of appeal. I wondered whether that might not be an instance ofthe cunning for which I had heard that the insane are noted. She showedno sign of insanity, however.

  I looked about curiously to see if
there were evidences of thetreatment which she was receiving. On a table stood a bottle and aglass, as well as a teaspoon, and I recalled the doctor's remark aboutthe tonic.

  "You look tired, Mrs. Cranston," remarked Kennedy, thoughtfully. "Whynot rest while we are here, and then I will be sure my visit has had noill effects."

  "Thank you," she murmured, and I was much impressed by the sweetness ofher voice.

  As he spoke, Kennedy arranged the pillows on a chaise lounge and placedher on it with her head slightly elevated. Having discussed the subjectof psychanalysis with Kennedy before, I knew that this was so thatnothing might distract her from the free association of ideas.

  He placed himself near her head, and motioned to us to stand fartherback of him, where she could not see us.

  "Avoid all muscular exertion and distraction," he continued. "I wantyou to concentrate your attention thoroughly. Tell me anything thatcomes into your mind. Tell all you know of your symptoms. Concentrate,and repeat all you think of. Frankly express all the thoughts that youhave, even though they may be painful and embarrassing."

  He said this soothingly, and she seemed to understand that muchdepended upon her answers and the fact of not forcing her ideas.

  "I am thinking of my husband," Mrs. Cranston began, finally, in adreamy tone.

  "What of him?" suggested Kennedy.

  "Of how the baby--separated us--and--" She paused, almost in tears.

  From what I knew of the method of psychanalysis, I recalled it was thegaps and hesitations which were most important in arriving at the truthregarding the cause of her trouble.

  "Perhaps it was my fault; perhaps I was a better mother than wife. Ithought I was doing what he would want me to do. Too late I see mymistake."

  It was easy to read into her story that there had been other women inhis life. It had wounded her deeply. Yet it was equally plain that shestill loved him.

  "Go on," urged Kennedy, gently.

  "Oh yes," she resumed, dreamily; "I am thinking about once, when I lefthim, I wandered through the country. I remember little except that itwas the country through which we had passed on an automobile trip onour honeymoon. Once I thought I saw him, and I tried to get to him. Ilonged for him, but each time, when I almost reached him, he woulddisappear. I seemed to be so deserted and alone. I tried to call him,but my tongue refused to say his name. It must have been hours that Iwandered about, for I recall nothing after that until I was found,disheveled and exhausted."

  She paused and closed her eyes, while I could see that Kennedyconsidered this gap very important.

  "Don't stop," persisted Kennedy. "Once we quarreled over one of hisclients who was suing for a divorce. I thought he was devoting too muchtime and attention to her. While there might not have been anythingwrong, still I was afraid. In my anger and anxiety I accused him. Heretorted by slamming the door, and I did not see him for two or threedays. I realized my nervous condition, and one day a mutual friend ofours introduced me to Doctor Burr and advised me to take a rest-cure athis sanatorium. By this time Roger and I were on speaking-terms again.But the death of the baby and the quarrel left me still as nervous asbefore. He seemed anxious to have me do something, and so I came here."

  "Do you remember anything that happened after that?" asked Craig, forthe first time asking a mildly leading question.

  "Yes; I recall everything that happened when I came here," she went on."Roger came up with me to complete the necessary arrangements. We weremet at the station by Doctor Burr and this woman who has since been mynurse and companion. On the way up from the station to the sanatoriumDoctor Burr was very considerate of me, and I noticed that my husbandseemed interested in Miss Giles and the care she was to take of me."

  Kennedy flashed a glance at me from a note-book in which he wasapparently busily engaged in jotting down her answers. I did not knowjust what interpretation to put on it, but surmised that it meant thathe had struck what the new psychologists call a "complex," in theentrance of Miss Giles into the case.

  Before we realized it there came a sudden outburst of feeling.

  "And now--they are keeping me here by force!" she cried.

  Doctor Burr looked at us significantly, as much as to say, "Just whatmight be expected, you see." Kennedy nodded, but made no effort to stopMrs. Cranston.

  "They have told Roger that I am insane, and I know he must believe itor he would not leave me here. But their real motive, I can guess, ismercenary. I can't complain about my treatment here--it costs enough."

  By this time she was sitting bolt upright, staring straight ahead asthough amazed at her own boldness in speaking so frankly before them.

  "I feel all right at times--then--it is as though I had a paralysis ofthe body, but not of the mind--not of the mind," she repeated, tensely.There was a frightened look on her face, and her voice was now wildlyappealing.

  What would have followed I cannot guess, for at that instant there camea noise outside from another of the rooms as though pandemonium hadbroken loose. By the shouting and confusion, one might easily havewondered whether keepers and lunatics might not have exchanged places.

  "It is just one of the patients who has escaped from his room,"explained Doctor Burr; "nothing to be alarmed about. We'll soon havehim quieted."

  Doctor Burr hurried out into the corridor while Miss Giles was lookingout of the door.

  Quickly Kennedy reached over and abstracted several drops from a bottleof tonic on the table, pouring it into his handkerchief, which herolled up tightly and stuffed into his pocket. Mrs. Cranston watchedhim pleadingly, and clasped her hands in mute appeal, with a hastyglance at Miss Giles.

  Kennedy said nothing, either, but rapidly folded up a page of thenote-book on which he had been writing and shoved it into Mrs.Cranston's hand, together with something he had taken from his pocket.She understood, and quickly placed it in her corsage.

  "Read it--when you are absolutely alone," he whispered, just as MissGiles shut the door and turned to us.

  The excitement subsided almost as quickly as it had arisen, but it hadbeen sufficient to put a stop to any further study of the case alongthose lines. Miss Giles's keen eyes missed no action or movement of herpatient.

  Doctor Burr returned shortly. It was evident from his manner that hewished to have the visit terminated, and Kennedy seemed quite willingto take the hint. He thanked Mrs. Cranston, and we withdrew quietly,after bidding her good-by in a manner as reassuring as we could make itunder the circumstances.

  "You see," remarked Doctor Burr, as we walked down the hall, "she isquite unstrung still. Mr. Cranston comes up here once in a while, andwe notice that after these visits she is, if anything, worse."

  Down the hall a door had been left open, and we could catch a glimpseof a patient rolled in a blanket, while two nurses forced somethingdown his throat. Doctor Burr hastily closed the door as we passed.

  "That is the condition Mrs. Cranston might have got into if she had notcome to us when she did," he said. "As it is, she is never violent andis one of the most tractable patients we have."

  We left shortly, without finding out whether Doctor Burr suspected usof anything or not. As we made our way back to the city, I could nothelp the feeling of depression such as Poe mentioned at seeing theprivate madhouse in France.

  "That glimpse we had into the other room almost makes one recall thesoothing system of Doctor Maillard. Is Doctor Burr's system better?" Iasked.

  "A good deal of what we used to think and practise is out of date now,"returned Kennedy. "I think you are already familiar with the theory ofdreams that has been developed by Dr. Sigmund Freud, of Vienna. Butperhaps you are not aware of the fact that Freud's contribution to thestudy of insanity is of even greater scientific value than his dreamtheories taken by themselves.

  "Hers, I feel sure now, is what is known as one of the so-called'border-line cases,'" he continued. "It is clearly a case ofhysteria--not the hysteria one hears spoken of commonly, but thecondition which scientists know as such. We
trace the impulses fromwhich hysterical conditions arise, penetrate the disguises which theserepressed impulses or wishes must assume in order to appear in theconsciousness. Such transformed impulses are found in normal people,too, sometimes. The hysteric suffers mostly from reminiscences which,paradoxically, may be completely forgotten.

  "Obsessions and phobias have their origin, according to Freud, insexual life. The obsession represents a compensation or substitute foran unbearable sexual idea and takes its place in consciousness. Innormal sexual life, no neurosis is possible, say the Freudists. Sex isthe strongest impulse, yet subject to the greatest repression, andhence the weakest point of our cultural development. Hysteria arisesthrough the conflict between libido and sex-repression. Oftensex-wishes may be consciously rejected but unconsciously accepted. Sowhen they are understood every insane utterance has a reason. There isreally method in madness.

  "When hysteria in a wife gains her the attention of an otherwiseinattentive husband it fills, from the standpoint of her deeperlonging, an important place, and, in a sense, may be said to bedesirable. The great point about the psychanalytic method, asdiscovered by Breuer and Freud, is that certain symptoms of hysteriadisappear when the hidden causes are brought to light and the represseddesires are gratified."

  "How does that apply to Mrs. Cranston?" I queried.

  "Mrs. Cranston," he replied, "is suffering from what the psychanalystscall a psychic trauma--a soul-wound, as it were. It is the neglect, inthis case, of her husband, whom she deeply loves. That, in itself, issufficient to explain her experience wandering through the country. Itwas the region which she associated with her first love-affair, as shetold us. The wave of recollection that swept over her engulfed hermind. In other words, reason could no longer dominate the cravings fora love so long suppressed. Then, when she saw, or imagined she saw, onewho looked like her lover the strain was too great."

  It was the middle of the afternoon when we reached the laboratory.Kennedy at once set to work studying the drops of tonic which had beenabsorbed in the handkerchief. As Kennedy worked, I began thinking overagain of what we had seen at the Belleclaire Sanatorium. Somehow orother, I could not get out of my mind the recollection of the manrolled in the blanket and trussed up as helpless as a mummy. I wonderedwhether that alone was sufficient to account for the quickness withwhich he had been pacified. Then I recalled Mrs. Cranston's remarkabout her mental alertness and physical weakness. Had it anything to dowith the "tonic"?

  "Suppose, while I am waiting," I finally suggested to Craig, "I try tofind out what Cranston does with his time since his wife has been shutoff from the world."

  "That's a very good idea," acquiesced Kennedy. "Don't take too long,however, for I may strike something important here any minute."

  After several inquiries over the telephone, I found that since his wifehad been in Montrose Cranston had closed his apartment and was livingat one of his clubs. Having two or three friends who were members, Idid not hesitate to drop around.

  Unfortunately, none of my friends happened to be there, and I wasforced, finally, to ask for Cranston himself, although all that Ireally wanted to know was whether he was there or not. One of theclerks told me that he had been in, but had left in a taxicab only ashort time before.

  As there was a cab-stand outside the club, I determined to make aninquiry and perhaps discover the driver who had had him. The starterknew him, and when I said that it was very important business on whichI wanted to see him he motioned to a driver who had just pulled up.

  A chance for another fare and a generous tip were all that wasnecessary to induce him to drive me to the Trocadero, a fashionablerestaurant and cabaret, where he had taken Cranston a short timebefore. It was crowded when I entered, and, avoiding the headwaiter, Istood by the door a few minutes and looked over the brilliant and gaythrong. Finally, I managed to catch a glimpse of Cranston's head at atable in a far corner. As I made my way down the line of tables, I wasgenuinely amazed to see that he was with a woman. It was Julia Giles!

  She must have come down on the next train after we did, but, at anyrate, it looked as though she had lost no time in seeking out Cranstonafter our visit. I took a seat at a table next them.

  They were talking about Kennedy, and, during a lull in the music, Ioverheard him asking her just what Craig had done.

  "It was certainly very clever in him to play both you and Doctor Burrthe way he did. He told Doctor Burr that you had sent him, and told youthat Doctor Burr had sent him. By whom do you suppose he really wassent?"

  "Could it have been my wife?"

  "It must have been, but how she did it is more than I can imagine."

  "How is she, anyway?" he asked.

  "Sometimes she seems to be getting along finely, and then, other days,I feel quite discouraged about her. Her case is very obstinate."

  "Perhaps I had better go out and see Burr," he considered. "It is earlyin the evening. I'll drive you out in my car. I'll stay at thesanatorium tonight, and then, perhaps, I'll know a little better whatwe can do."

  It was his tone rather than his words which gave me the impression thathe was more interested in being with Miss Giles than with Mrs.Cranston. I wondered whether it was a plot of Cranston's and MissGiles's. Had he been posing before Kennedy, and were they really tryingto put Mrs. Cranston out of the way?

  As the music started up again, I heard her say, "Can't we have just onemore dance?" A moment later they were lost in the gay whirl on thedancing-floor. They made a handsome couple, and it was evident that itwas not the first time that they had dined and danced together. Themusic ceased, and they returned to their places reluctantly, whileCranston telephoned for his car to be brought around to the cabaret.

  I hastened back to the laboratory to inform Craig what I had seen. As Itold my story he looked up at me with a sudden flash of comprehension.

  "I am glad to know where they will all be tonight," he said. "Some onehas been giving her henbane--hyoscyamin. I have just discovered it inthe tonic."

  "What's henbane?" I asked.

  "It is a drug derived from the hyoscyamus plant, much like belladonna,though more distinctly sedative. It is a hypnotic used often in maniaand mental excitement. The feeling which Mrs. Cranston described is oneof its effects. You recall the brightness of her eyes? That is one ofthe effects of the mydriatic alkaloids, of which this is one. Theancients were familiar with several of its peculiar properties, as theyknew of the closely allied poison hemlock.

  "Many of the text-books at the present time fail to say anything aboutthe remarkable effect produced by large doses of this terriblealkaloid. This effect can be described technically so as to beintelligible, but no description can convey, even approximately, theterrible sensation produced in many insane patients by large doses. Ina general way, it is the condition of paralysis of the body without thecorresponding paralysis of the mind."

  "And it's this stuff that somebody has been putting into her tonic?" Iasked, startled. "Do you suppose that is part of Burr's system, or didMiss Giles lighten her work by putting it into the tonic?"

  Kennedy did not betray his suspicion, but went on describing the drugwhich was having such a serious effect on Mrs. Cranston.

  "The victim lies in an absolutely helpless condition sometimes with hismuscles so completely paralyzed that he cannot so much as move afinger, cannot close his lips or move his tongue to moisten them. Thisfeeling of helplessness is usually followed by unconsciousness and thenby a period of depression. The combined feeling of helplessness anddepression is absolutely unlike any other feeling imaginable, if I mayjudge from the accounts of those who have experienced it. Othersensations, such as pain, may be judged, in a measure, by comparisonwith other painful sensations, but the sensation produced by hyoscyaminin large doses seems to have no basis for comparison. There is nokindred feeling. Practically every institution for the insane used it afew years ago for controlling patients, but now better methods havebeen devised."

  "The more I think of what I saw
at the Trocadero," I remarked, "themore I wonder if Miss Giles has been seeking to win Cranston herself."

  "In large-enough doses and repeated often enough," continued Kennedy,"I suppose the toxic effect of the drug might be to produce insanity.At any rate, if we are going to do anything, it might better be done atonce. They are all out there now. If we act to-night, surely we shallhave the best chance of making the guilty person betray himself."

  Kennedy telephoned for a fast touring-car, and in half an hour, whilehe gathered some apparatus together, the car was before the door. In ithe placed a couple of light silk-rope ladders, some common woodenwedges, and an instrument which resembled a surveyor's transit with twoconical horns sticking out at the ends.

  We made the trip out of New York and up the Boston post-road, followingthe route which Cranston and Miss Giles must have taken some hoursbefore us. In the town of Montrose, Kennedy stopped only long enough toget a bite to eat and to study up in the roads in the vicinity.

  It was long after midnight when we struck up into the country. Thenight was very dark, thick, and foggy. With the engine running asmuffled as possible and the lights dimmed, Kennedy quietly jammed onthe brakes as we pulled up along the side of the road.

  A few rods farther ahead I could make out the Belleclaire Sanatoriumsurrounded by its picketed stone wall. Not a light was visible in anyof the windows.

  "Now that we're here," I whispered, "what can we do?"

  "You remember the paper I gave Mrs. Cranston when the excitement in thehall broke loose?"

  "Yes," I nodded, as we moved over under the shadow of the wall.

  "I wrote on a sheet from my note-book," said Kennedy, "and told her tobe ready when she heard a pebble strike the window; and I gave her apiece of string to let down to the ground."

  Kennedy threw the silk ladder up until it caught on one of the pickets;then, with the other ladder and the wedges, he reached the top of thewall, followed by me. We pulled the first ladder up as we clung to thepickets, and let it down again inside. Noiselessly we crossed the lawn.

  Above was Mrs. Cranston's window. Craig picked up some bits of brokenstone from a walk about the house and threw them gently against thepane. Then we drew back into the shadow of the house, lest any pryingeyes might discover us. In a few minutes the window on the second floorwas stealthily opened. The muffled figure of Mrs. Cranston appeared inthe dim light; then a piece of string was lowered.

  To it Kennedy attached a light silk ladder and motioned in pantomimefor her to draw it up. It took her some time to fasten the ladder toone of the heavy pieces of furniture in the room. Swaying from side toside, but clinging with frantic desperation to the ladder while we didour best to steady it, she managed to reach the ground. She turned fromthe building with a shudder, and whispered:

  "This terrible place! How can I ever thank you for getting me out ofit?"

  Kennedy did not pause long enough to say a word, but hurried her acrossto the final barrier, the wall.

  Suddenly there was a shout of alarm from the front of the house underthe columns. It was the night watchman, who had discovered us.

  Instantly Kennedy seized a chair from a little summer-house.

  "Quick, Walter," he cried, "over the wall with Mrs. Cranston, while Ihold him! Then throw the ladder back on this side. I'll join you in amoment, as soon as you get her safely over."

  A chair is only an indifferent club, if that is all one can think ofusing it for. Kennedy ran squarely at the watchman, holding it outstraight before him. Only once did I cast a hasty glance back. Therewas the man pinned to the wall by the chair, with Kennedy at the otherend of it and safely out of reach.

  Mrs. Cranston and I managed to scramble over the wall, although shetore her dress on the pickets before we reached the other side. Ihustled her into the car and made everything ready to start. It wasonly a couple of minutes after I threw the ladder back before Craigrejoined us.

  "How did you get away from the watchman?" I demanded, breathlessly, aswe shot away.

  "I forced him back with the chair into the hall and slammed the door.Then I jammed a wedge under it," he chuckled. "That will hold it betterthan any lock. Every push will jam it tighter."

  Above the hubbub, inside now, we could hear a loud gong soundinginsistently. All about were lights flashing up at the windows andmoving through the passageways. Shouts came from the back of the houseas a door was finally opened there. But we were off now, with a goodstart.

  I could imagine the frantic telephoning that was going on in thesanatorium. And I knew that the local police of Montrose and everyother town about us were being informed of the escape. They wererequired by the law to render all possible assistance, and, as thecountry boasted several institutions quite on a par with Belleclaire,an attempt at an escape was not an unusual occurrence.

  The post-road by which we had come was therefore impossible, andKennedy swung up into the country, in the hope of throwing off pursuitlong enough to give us a better chance.

  "Take the wheel, Walter," he muttered. "I'll tell you what turns tomake. We must get to the State line of New York without being stopped.We can beat almost any car. But that is not enough. A telephone messageahead may stop us, unless we can keep from being seen."

  I took the wheel, and did not stop the car as Kennedy climbed over theseat. In the back of the car, where Mrs. Cranston was sitting, hehastily adjusted the peculiar apparatus.

  "Sounds at night are very hard to locate," he explained. "Up this sideroad, Walter; there is some one coming ahead of us."

  I turned and shot up the detour, stopping in the shadow of some trees,where we switched off every light and shut down the engine. Kennedycontinued to watch the instrument before him.

  "What is it?" I whispered.

  "A phonometer," he replied. "It was invented to measure the intensityof sound. But it is much more valuable as an instrument that tells withprecision from what direction a sound comes. It needs only a small drybattery and can be carried around easily. The sound enters the twohorns of the phonometer, is focused at the neck, and strikes on adelicate diaphragm, behind which is a needle. The diaphragm vibratesand the needle moves. The louder the sound the greater the movement ofthis needle.

  "At this end, where it looks as though I were sighting like a surveyor,I am gazing into a lens, with a tiny electric bulb close to my eye. Thelight of this bulb is reflected in a mirror which is moved by themoving needle. When the sound is loudest the two horns are at rightangles to the direction whence it comes. So it is only necessary totwist the phonometer about on its pivot until the sound is receivedmost loudly in the horns and the band of light is greatest. I know thenthat the horns are at right angles to the direction from which thesound proceeds, and that, as I lift my head, I am looking straighttoward the source of the sound. I can tell its direction to a fewdegrees."

  I looked through it myself to see how sound was visualized by light.

  "Hush!" cautioned Kennedy.

  Down on the main road we could see a car pass along slowly in thedirection of Montrose, from which we had come. Without the phonometerto warn us, it must inevitably have met us and blocked our escape overthe road ahead.

  That danger passed, on we sped. Five minutes, I calculated, and weshould cross the State line to New York and safety.

  We had been going along nicely when, "Bang!" came a loud report back ofus.

  "Confound it!" muttered Kennedy; "a blowout always when you leastexpect it."

  We climbed out of the car and had the shoe off in short order.

  "Look!" cried Janet Cranston, in a frightened voice, from the back ofthe car.

  The light of the phonometer had flashed up. A car was following us.

  "There's just one chance!" cried Kennedy, springing to the wheel. "Wemight make it on the rim."

  Banging and pounding, we forged ahead, straining our eyes to watch theroad, the distance, the time, and the phonometer all at once.

  It was no use. A big gray roadster was overtaking us. The driv
ercrowded us over to the very edge of the road, then shot ahead, and,where the road narrowed down, deliberately pulled up across the road insuch a way that we had to run into him or stop.

  Quickly Craig's automatic gleamed in the dim beams from the side lights.

  "Just a minute," cautioned a voice. "It was a plot against me, quite asmuch as it was against her--the nurse to lead me on, while the doctorgot a rich patient. I suspected all was not right. That's why I gaveyou the card. I knew you didn't come from Burr. Then, when I heardnothing from you, I let the Giles woman think I was coming to Montroseto be with her. But, really, I wanted to beat that fake asylum--"

  Two piercing headlights shone down the road back of us. We waited amoment until they, too, came to a stop.

  "Here they are!" shouted the voice of a man, as he jumped out, followedby a woman.

  Kennedy stepped forward, waving his automatic menacingly.

  "You are under arrest for conspiracy--both of you!" he cried, as werecognized Doctor Burr and Miss Giles.

  A little cry behind me startled me, and I turned. Janet Cranston hadflung herself into the arms of the only person who could heal herwounded soul.