"Mrs. Fletcher, of Great Neck," she explained, "has told me. I
believe Professor Kennedy performed a great service for the
Fletchers, though I do not know what it was. At any rate, I have
come to you with my case, in which I have small hope of obtaining
assistance unless you can help me. If Professor Kennedy cannot
solve it, well, I'm afraid nobody can." She paused a moment, then
added, "No doubt you have read of the death of my guardian the
other day."

Of course we had. Who did not know that "Jim" Bisbee, the
southern California oil-magnate, had died suddenly of typhoid
fever at the private hospital of Dr. Bell, where he had been
taken from his magnificent apartment on Riverside Drive? Kennedy
and I had discussed it at the time. We had commented on the
artificiality of the twentieth century. No longer did people have
homes; they had apartments, I had said. They didn't fall ill in
the good old-fashioned way any more, either in fact, they even
hired special rooms to die in. They hired halls for funeral
services. It was a wonder that they didn't hire graves. It was
all part of our twentieth century break-up of tradition. Indeed
we did know about the death of Jim Bisbee. But there was nothing
mysterious about it. It was just typical in all its surroundings
of the first decade of the twentieth century in a great,
artificial city--a lonely death of a great man surrounded by all
that money could buy.

We had read of his ward, too, the beautiful Miss Eveline Bisbee,
a distant relation. As under the heat of the room and her
excitement, she raised her veil, we were very much interested in
her. At least, I am sure that even Kennedy had by this time