"I am not by nature a spy, Professor Kennedy, but—well, sometimes one is forced into something like that." Maude Euston, who had sought out Craig in his laboratory, was a striking girl, not merely because she was pretty or because her gown was modish. Perhaps it was her sincerity and artlessness that made her attractive. She was the daughter of Barry Euston, president of the Continental Express Company, and one could readily see why, aside from the position her father held, she should be among t

"You haven't heard—no one outside has heard—of the strange illness and the robbery of my employer, Mr. Mansfield—'Diamond Jack' Mansfield, you know." Our visitor was a slight, very pretty, but extremely nervous girl, who had given us a card bearing the name Miss Helen Grey. "Illness—robbery?" repeated Kennedy, at once interested and turning a quick glance at me. I shrugged my shoulders in the negative. Neither the Star nor any of the other papers had had a word about it. "Why, what's the trouble

"Here's the most remarkable appeal," observed Kennedy, one morning, as he tossed over to me a letter. "What do you make of that?" It read: You do not know me, but I have heard a great deal about you. Please, I beg of you, do not disregard this letter. At least try to verify the appeal I am making. I am here at the Belleclaire Sanatorium, run by Dr. Bolton Burr, in Montrose. But it is not a real sanatorium. It is really a private asylum. Let me tell my story briefly. After my baby was born I devo

"It's almost as though he had been struck down by a spirit hand, Kennedy." Grady, the house detective of the Prince Edward Charles Hotel, had routed us out of bed in the middle of the night with a hurried call for help, and now met us in the lobby of the fashionable hostelry. All that he had said over the wire was that there had been a murder—"an Englishman, a Captain Shirley." "Why," exclaimed Grady, lowering his voice as he led us through the lobby, "it's the most mysterious thing, I think, th

"Guy Fawkes himself would shudder in that mill. Think of it—five explosions on five successive days, and not a clue!" Our visitor had presented a card bearing the name of Donald MacLeod, chief of the Nitropolis Powder Company's Secret Service. It was plain that he was greatly worried over the case about which he had at last been forced to consult Kennedy. As he spoke, I remembered having read in the despatches about the explosions, but the accounts had been so meager that I had not realized that

"Oh, Mr. Jameson, if they could only wake her up—find out what is the matter—do something! This suspense is killing both mother and myself." Scenting a good feature story, my city editor had sent me out on an assignment, my sole equipment being a clipping of two paragraphs from the morning Star. Virginia Blakeley, the nineteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. Stuart Blakeley, of Riverside Drive, who has been in a state of coma for six days, still shows no sign of returning consciousness. Ever since Mon

"Since we brought him home, my brother just tosses and gasps for air. Oh, I think Eulalie and I shall both go mad!" The soft, pleading voice of Anitra Barrios and her big, appealing brown eyes filled with tears were doubly affecting as, in spite of her own feelings, she placed her hand on that of a somewhat younger girl who had accompanied her to the laboratory. "We were to have been married next month," sobbed Eulalie Sandoval. "Can't you come and see Jose, Professor Kennedy? There must be some

"That's the handwriting of a woman—a jealous woman," remarked Kennedy, handing to me a dainty note on plain paper which had come in the morning mail. I did not stop to study the writing, for the contents of the letter were more fascinating than even Kennedy's new science of graphology. You don't know me [the note read], but I know of your work of scientific investigation. Let me inform you of something that ought to interest you. In the Forum Apartments you will find that there is some strange d

"Hypnotism can't begin to accomplish what Karatoff claims. He's a fake, Kennedy, a fake." Professor Leslie Gaines of the Department of Experimental Psychology at the university paced excitedly up and down Craig's laboratory. "There have been complaints to the County Medical Society," he went on, without stopping, "and they have taken the case up and arranged a demonstration for this afternoon. I've been delegated to attend it and report." I fancied from his tone and manner that there was just a

"Here's the bullet. What I want you to do, Professor Kennedy, is to catch the crank who fired it." Capt. Lansing Marlowe, head of the new American Shipbuilding Trust, had summoned us in haste to the Belleclaire and had met us in his suite with his daughter Marjorie. Only a glance was needed to see that it was she, far more than her father, who was worried. "You must catch him," she appealed. "Father's life is in danger. Oh, you simply MUST." I knew Captain Marlowe to be a proverbial fire-eater,

"With the treaty ratified, if the deal goes through we'll all be rich." Something about the remark which rose over the babel of voices arrested Kennedy's attention. For one thing, it was a woman's voice, and it was not the sort of remark to be expected from a woman, at least not in such a place. Craig had been working pretty hard and began to show the strain. We had taken an evening off and now had dropped in after the theater at the Burridge, one of the most frequented midnight resorts on Broad

"Get story Everson and bride yacht Belle Aventure seeking treasure sunk Gulf liner Antilles." Kennedy and I had proceeded after a few leisurely days in St. Thomas to Porto Rico. We had no particular destination, and San Juan rather appealed to us as an objective point because it was American. It was there that I found waiting for me the above message by wireless from the Star in New York. San Juan was, as we had anticipated, a thoroughly Americanized town and I lost no time in getting around at