"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.
GIRL IN COMA SIX DAYS--SHOWS NO SIGN OF REVIVAL
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 Monday some member of her family has been constantly beside her. Her
mother and sister have both vainly tried to coax her back to consciousness, but their
efforts have not met with the slightest response. Dr. Calvert Haynes, the family
physician, and several specialists who have been called in consultation, are completely
baffled by the strange malady.
Often I had read of cases of morbid sleep lasting for days and even for weeks. But this
was the first case I had ever actually encountered and I was glad to take the assignment.
The Blakeleys, as every one knew, had inherited from Stuart Blakeley a very
considerable fortune in real estate in one of the most rapidly developing sections of upper
New York, and on the death of their mother the two girls, Virginia and Cynthia, would be
numbered among the wealthiest heiresses of the city.
They lived in a big sandstone mansion fronting the Hudson and it was with some
misgiving that I sent up my card. Both Mrs. Blakeley and her other daughter, however,
met me in the reception-room, thinking, perhaps, from what I had written on the card,
that I might have some assistance to offer
Mrs. Blakeley was a well-preserved lady, past middle-age, and very nervous.
"Mercy, Cynthia!" she exclaimed, as I explained my mission, "it's another one of those
reporters. No, I cannot say anything--not a word. I don't know anything. See Doctor
Haynes. I--"
"But, mother," interposed Cynthia, more calmly, "the thing is in the papers. It may be that
some one who reads of it may know of something that can be done. Who can tell?"
"Well, I won't say anything," persisted the elder woman. "I don't like all this publicity.
Did the newspapers ever do anything but harm to your poor dear father? No, I won't talk.
It won't do us a bit of good. And you, Cynthia, had better be careful."
Mrs. Blakeley backed out of the door, but Cynthia, who was a few years older than her
sister, had evidently acquired independence. At least she felt capable of coping with an
ordinary reporter who looked no more formidable than myself.
"It is quite possible that some one who knows about such cases may learn of this," I
urged.
She hesitated as her mother disappeared, and looked at me a moment, then, her feelings
getting the better of her, burst forth with the strange appeal I have already quoted.
It was as though I had come at just an opportune moment when she must talk to some
outsider to relieve her pent-up feelings.
By an adroit question here and there, as we stood in the reception-hall, I succeeded in
getting the story, which seemed to be more of human interest than of news. I even
managed to secure a photograph of Virginia as she was before the strange sleep fell on
her.
Briefly, as her sister told it, Virginia was engaged to Hampton Haynes, a young medical
student at the college where his father was a professor of diseases of the heart. The
Hayneses were of a fine Southern family which had never recovered from the war and
had finally come to New York. The father, Dr. Calvert Haynes, in addition to being a
well-known physician, was the family physician of the Blakeleys, as I already knew.
"Twice the date of the marriage has been set, only to be postponed," added Cynthia
Blakeley. "We don't know what to do. And Hampton is frantic."
"Then this is really the second attack of the morbid sleep?" I queried.
"Yes--in a few weeks. Only the other wasn't so long--not more than a day."
She said it in a hesitating manner which I could not account for. Either she thought there
might be something more back of it or she recalled her mother's aversion to reporters and
did not know whether she was saying too much or not.
"Do you really fear that there is something wrong?" I asked, significantly, hastily
choosing the former explanation.
Cynthia Blakeley looked quickly at the door through which her mother had retreated.
"I--I don't know," she replied, tremulously. "I don't know why I am talking to you. I'm so
afraid, too, that the newspapers may say something that isn't true."
"You would like to get at the truth, if I promise to hold the story back?" I persisted,
catching her eye.
"Yes," she answered, in a low tone, "but--" then stopped.
"I will ask my friend, Professor Kennedy, at the university, to come here," I urged.
"You know him?" she asked, eagerly. "He will come?"
"Without a doubt," I reassured, waiting for her to say no more, but picking up the
telephone receiver on a stand in the hall.
Fortunately I found Craig at his laboratory and a few hasty words were all that was
necessary to catch his interest.
"I must tell mother," Cynthia cried, excitedly, as I hung up the receiver. "Surely she
cannot object to that. Will you wait here?"
As I waited for Craig, I tried to puzzle the case out for myself. Though I knew nothing
about it as yet, I felt sure that I had not made a mistake and that there was some mystery
here.
Suddenly I became aware that the two women were talking in the next room, though too
low for me to catch what they were saying. It was evident, however, that Cynthia was
having some difficulty in persuading her mother that everything was all right.
"Well, Cynthia," I heard her mother say, finally, as she left the room for one farther back,
"I hope it will be all right--that is all I can say."
What was it that Mrs. Blakeley so feared? Was it merely the unpleasant notoriety? One
could not help the feeling that there was something more that she suspected, perhaps
knew, but would not tell. Yet, apparently, it was aside from her desire to have her
daughter restored to normal. She was at sea, herself, I felt.
"Poor dear mother!" murmured Cynthia, rejoining me in a few moments. "She hardly
knows just what it is she does want-except that we want Virginia well again."
We had not long to wait for Craig. What I had told him over the telephone had been quite
enough to arouse his curiosity.
Both Mrs. Blakeley and Cynthia met him, at first a little fearfully, but quickly reassured
by his manner, as well as my promise to see that nothing appeared in the Star which
would be distasteful.
"Oh, if some one could only bring back our little girl!" cried Mrs. Blakeley, with
suppressed emotion, leading the way with her daughter up-stairs.
It was only for a moment that I could see Craig alone to explain the impressions I had
received, but it was enough.
"I'm glad you called me," he whispered. "There is something queer."
We followed them up to the dainty bedroom in flowered enamel where Virginia Blakeley
lay, and it was then for the first time that we saw her. Kennedy drew a chair up beside the
little white bed and went to work almost as though he had been a physician himself.
Partly from what I observed myself and partly from what he told me afterward, I shall try
to describe the peculiar condition in which she was.
She lay there lethargic, scarcely breathing. Once she had been a tall, slender, fair girl,
with a sort of wild grace. Now she seemed to be completely altered. I could not help
thinking of the contrast between her looks now and the photograph in my pocket.
Not only was her respiration slow, but her pulse was almost imperceptible, less than forty
a minute. Her temperature was far below normal, and her blood pressure low. Once she
had seemed fully a woman, with all the strength and promise of precocious maturity. But
now there was something strange about her looks. It is difficult to describe. It was not
that she was no longer a young woman, but there seemed to be something almost sexless
about her. It was as though her secondary sex characteristics were no longer feminine,
but--for want of a better word--neuter.
Yet, strange to say, in spite of the lethargy which necessitated at least some artificial
feeding, she was not falling away. She seemed, if anything, plump. To all appearances
there was really a retardation of metabolism connected with the trance-like sleep. She
was actually gaining in weight!
As he noted one of these things after another, Kennedy looked at her long and carefully. I
followed the direction of his eyes. Over her nose, just a trifle above the line of her
eyebrows, was a peculiar red mark, a sore, which was very disfiguring, as though it were
hard to heal.
"What is that?" he asked Mrs. Blakeley, finally.
"I don't know," she replied, slowly. "We've all noticed it. It came just after the sleep
began."
"You have no idea what could have caused it?"
"Both Virginia and Cynthia have been going to a face specialist," she admitted, "to have
their skins treated for freckles. After the treatment they wore masks which were supposed
to have some effect on the skin. I don't know. Could it be that?"
Kennedy looked sharply at Cynthia's face. There was no red mark over her nose. But
there were certainly no freckles on either of the girls' faces now, either.
"Oh, mother," remonstrated Cynthia, "it couldn't be anything Doctor Chapelle did."
"Doctor Chapelle?" repeated Kennedy.
"Yes, Dr. Carl Chapelle," replied Mrs. Blakeley. "Perhaps you have heard of him. He is
quite well known, has a beauty-parlor on Fifth Avenue. He--"
"It's ridiculous," cut in Cynthia, sharply. "Why, my face was worse than Virgie's. Car--He
said it would take longer."
I had been watching Cynthia, but it needed only to have heard her to see that Doctor
Chapelle was something more than a beauty specialist to her.
Kennedy glanced thoughtfully from the clear skin of Cynthia to the red mark on Virginia.
Though he said nothing, I could see that his mind was on it. I had heard of the beauty
doctors who promise to give one a skin as soft and clear as a baby's--and often, by their
inexpert use of lotions and chemicals, succeed in ruining the skin and disfiguring the
patient for life. Could this be a case of that sort? Yet how explain the apparent success
with Cynthia?
The elder sister, however, was plainly vexed at the mention of the beauty doctor's name
at all, and she showed it. Kennedy made a mental note of the matter, but refrained from
saying any more about it.
"I suppose there is no objection to my seeing Doctor Haynes?" asked Kennedy, rising and
changing the subject.
"None whatever," returned Mrs. Blakeley. "If there's anything you or he can do to bring
Virginia out of this--anything safe--I want it done," she emphasized.
Cynthia was silent as we left. Evidently she had not expected Doctor Chapelle's name to
be brought into the case.
We were lucky in finding Doctor Haynes at home, although it was not the regular time
for his office hours. Kennedy introduced himself as a friend of the Blakeleys who had
been asked to see that I made no blunders in writing the story for the Star. Doctor Haynes
did not question the explanation.
He was a man well on toward the sixties, with that magnetic quality that inspires the
confidence so necessary for a doctor. Far from wealthy, he had attained a high place in
the profession.
As Kennedy finished his version of our mission, Doctor Haynes shook his head with a
deep sigh.
"You can understand how I feel toward the Blakeleys," he remarked, at length. "I should
consider it unethical to give an interview under any circumstances--much more so under
the present."
"Still," I put in, taking Kennedy's cue, "just a word to set me straight can't do any harm. I
won't quote you directly."
He seemed to realize that it might be better to talk carefully than to leave all to my
imagination.
"Well," he began, slowly, "I have considered all the usual causes assigned for such
morbid sleep. It is not auto-suggestion or trance, I am positive. Nor is there any trace of
epilepsy. I cannot see how it could be due to poisoning, can you?"
I admitted readily that I could not.
"No," he resumed, "it is just a case of what we call narcolepsy-- pathological
somnolence--a sudden, uncontrollable inclination to sleep, occurring sometimes
repeatedly or at varying intervals. I don't think it hysterical, epileptic, or toxemic. The
plain fact of the matter, gentlemen, is that neither myself nor any of my colleagues whom
I have consulted have the faintest idea what it is--yet."
The door of the office opened, for it was not the hour for consulting patients, and a tall,
athletic young fellow, with a keen and restless face, though very boyish, entered.
"My son," the doctor introduced, "soon to be the sixth Doctor Haynes in direct line in the
family."
We shook hands. It was evident that Cynthia had not by any means exaggerated when she
said that he was frantic over what had happened to his fiancee.
Accordingly, there was no difficulty in reverting to the subject of our visit. Gradually I let
Kennedy take the lead in the conversation so that our position might not seem to be false.
It was not long before Craig managed to inject a remark about the red spot over Virginia's
nose. It seemed to excite young Hampton.
"Naturally I look on it more as a doctor than a lover," remarked his father, smiling
indulgently at the young man, whom it was evident he regarded above everything else in
the world. "I have not been able to account for it, either. Really the case is one of the
most remarkable I have ever heard of."
"You have heard of a Dr. Carl Chapelle?" inquired Craig, tentatively.
"A beauty doctor," interrupted the young man, turning toward his father. "You've met
him. He's the fellow I think is really engaged to Cynthia."
Hampton seemed much excited. There was unconcealed animosity in the manner of his
remark, and I wondered why it was. Could there be some latent jealousy?
"I see," calmed Doctor Haynes. "You mean to infer that this--er-- this Doctor Chapelle--"
He paused, waiting for Kennedy to take the initiative.
"I suppose you've noticed over Miss Blakeley's nose a red sore?" hazarded Kennedy.
"Yes," replied Doctor Haynes, "rather refractory, too. I--"
"Say," interrupted Hampton, who by this time had reached a high pitch of excitement,
"say, do you think it could be any of his confounded nostrums back of this thing?"
"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. <