us into an office-building on Madison Avenue, where he had a very
handsome suite of several rooms. We sat own in his waiting-room
to discuss the affair.

"It is indeed a very tragic case," began Kennedy, "almost more
tragic than if the victim had been killed outright. Mrs.
Huntington Close is--or rather I suppose I should say was--one of
the famous beauties of the city. From what the paper says, her
beauty has been hopelessly ruined by this dermatitis, which, I
understand, Doctor, is practically incurable."

Dr. Gregory nodded, and I could not help following his eyes as he
looked at his own rough and scarred hands.

"Also," continued Craig, with his eyes half closed and his
finger-tips together, as if, he were taking a mental inventory of
the facts in the case, "her nerves are so shattered that she will
be years in recovering, if she ever recovers."

"Yes," said the doctor simply. "I myself, for instance, am
subject to the most unexpected attacks of neuritis. But, of
course, I am under the influence of the rays fifty or sixty times
a day, while she had only a few treatments at intervals of many
days."

"Now, on the other hand," resumed Craig, "I know you, Gregory,
very well. Only the other day, before any of this came out, you
told me the whole story with your fears as to the outcome. I know
that that lawyer of Close's has been keeping this thing hanging
over your head for a long time. And I also know that you are one