“Any month you please,” he smiled grimly, as he reluctantly placed the tintometer in its cabinet.

There was no use.  I knew that any other month would have been just the same.

“Well,” I replied weakly, “all I can hope is that every day won’t be as strenuous as this has been.  I hope, at least, you will give me time to make some notes before you start off again.”

“Can’t say,” he answered, still busy returning paraphernalia to its accustomed place.  “I have no control over the cases as they come to me—­except that I fan turn down those that don’t interest me.”

“Then,” I sighed wearily, “turn down the next one.  I must have rest.  I’m going home to sleep.”

“Very well,” he said, making no move to follow me.

I shook my head doubtfully.  It was impossible to force a card on Kennedy.  Instead of showing any disposition to switch off the laboratory lights, he appeared to be regarding a row of half-filled test-tubes with the abstraction of a man who has been interrupted in the midst of an absorbing occupation.

“Good night,” I said at length.

“Good night,” he echoed mechanically.

I know that he slept that night—­at least his bed had been slept in when I awoke in the morning.  But he was gone.  But then, it was not unusual for him, when the fever for work was on him, to consider even five or fewer hours a night’s rest.  It made no difference when I argued with him.  The fact that he thrived on it himself and could justify it by pointing to other scientists was refutation enough.

Slowly I dressed, breakfasted, and began transcribing what I could from the hastily jotted down notes of the day before.  I knew that the work, whatever it was, in which he was now engaged must be in the nature of research, dear to his heart.  Otherwise, he would have left word for me.

No word came from him, however, all day, and I had not only caught up in my notes, but, my appetite whetted by our first case, had become hungry for more.  In fact I had begun to get a little worried at the continued silence.  A hand on the knob of the door or a ring of the telephone would hare been a welcome relief.  I was gradually becoming aware of the fact that I liked the excitement of the life as much as Kennedy did.

I knew it when the sudden sharp tinkle of the telephone set my heart throbbing almost as quickly as the little bell hammer buzzed.

“Jameson, for Heaven’s sake find Kennedy immediately and bring him over here to the Novella Beauty Parlour.  We’ve got the worst case I’ve been up against in a long time.  Dr. Leslie, the coroner, is here, and says we must not make a move until Kennedy arrives.”

I doubt whether in all our long acquaintance I had ever heard First Deputy O’Connor more wildly excited and apparently more helpless than he seemed over the telephone that night.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Never mind, never mind.  Find Kennedy,” he called back almost brusquely.  “It’s Miss Blanche Blaisdell, the actress—­she’s been found dead here.  The thing is an absolute mystery.  Now get him, get him.”