quaint and quiet little Connecticut town was sufficient. For Danbridge
was on everybody's lips at that time. It was the scene of the now
famous Danbridge poisoning case--a brutal case in which the pretty
little actress, Vera Lytton, had been the victim.

"I've been retained by Senator Adrian Willard," he called from his
room, as I was busy packing in mine. "The Willard family believe that
that young Dr. Dixon is the victim of a conspiracy--or at least Alma
Willard does, which comes to the same thing, and--well, the senator
called me up on long-distance and offered me anything I would name in
reason to take the case. Are you ready? Come on, then. We've simply
got to make that train."

As we settled ourselves in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman,
which for some reason or other we had to ourselves, Kennedy spoke
again for the first time since our frantic dash across the city to
catch the train.

"Now let us see, Walter," he began. "We've both read a good deal about
this case in the papers. Let's try to get our knowledge in an orderly
shape before we tackle the actual case itself."

"Ever been in Danbridge?" I asked.

"Never," he replied. "What sort of place is it?"

"Mighty interesting," I answered; "a combination of old New England
and new, of ancestors and factories, of wealth and poverty, and above
all it is interesting for its colony of New-Yorkers--what shall I call
it?--a literary-artistic-musical combination, I guess."