We stood dismayed at the horror of such a scientific murder and the meagreness of the materials to work on in tracing it out.

“That dream was indeed peculiar,” ruminated Craig, before we had really grasped the import of his quick revelation.

“You don’t mean to say that you attach any importance to a dream?” I asked hurriedly, trying to follow him.

Kennedy merely shrugged his shoulders, but I could see plainly enough that he did.

“You haven’t given this letter out to the press?” he asked.

“Not yet,” answered Dr. Leslie.

“Then don’t, until I say to do so.  I shall need to keep it.”

The cab in which we had come to the hospital was still waiting.  “We must see Mrs. Maitland first,” said Kennedy, as we left the nonplused coroner and his assistants.

The Maitlands lived, we soon found, in a large old-fashioned brownstone house just off Fifth Avenue.

Kennedy’s card with the message that it was very urgent brought us in as far as the library, where we sat for a moment looking around at the quiet refinement of a more than well-to-do home.

On a desk at one end of the long room was a typewriter.  Kennedy rose.  There was not a sound of any one in either the hallway or the adjoining rooms.  A moment later he was bending quietly over the typewriter in the corner, running off a series of characters on a sheet of paper.  A sound of a closing door upstairs, and he quickly jammed the paper into his pocket, retraced his steps, and was sitting quietly opposite me again.

Mrs. Maitland was a tall, perfectly formed woman of baffling age, but with the impression of both youth and maturity which was very fascinating.  She was calmer now, and although she seemed to be of anything but a hysterical nature, it was quite evident that her nervousness was due to much more than the shock of the recent tragic event, great as that must have been.  It may have been that I recalled the words of the note, “Dr. Ross has told me the nature of your illness,” but I fancied that she had been suffering from some nervous trouble.

“There is no use prolonging our introduction, Mrs. Maitland,” began Kennedy.  “We have called because the authorities are not yet fully convinced that Mr. Maitland committed suicide.”

It was evident that she had seen the note, at least.  “Not a suicide?” she repeated, looking from one to the other of us.

“Mr. Masterson on the wire, ma’am,” whispered a maid.  “Do you wish to speak to him?  He begged to say that he did not wish to intrude, but he felt that if there—­”

“Yes, I will talk to him—­in my room,” she interrupted.

I thought that there was just a trace of well-concealed confusion, as she excused herself.

We rose.  Kennedy did not resume his seat immediately.  Without a word or look he completed his work at the typewriter by abstracting several blank sheets of paper from the desk.