Dr. Ross moved nearer to Mrs. Maitland as if to reassure her.
Craig was studying attentively the effect of his revelation both
on her and on the other faces before him.

Mrs. Maitland, her shoulders bent with the outpouring of the long-
suppressed emotion of the evening and of the tragic day, called
for sympathy which, I could see, Craig would readily give when he
had reached the climax he had planned.

"Kennedy," exclaimed Masterson, pushing aside Dr. Ross, as he
bounded to the side of Mrs. Maitland, unable to restrain himself
longer, "Kennedy, you are a faker--nothing but a damned dream
doctor--in scientific disguise."

"Perhaps," replied Craig, with a quiet curl of the lip. "But the
threads of the typewriter ribbon, the alignment of the letters,
the paper, all the 'fingerprints' of that type-written note of
suicide were those of the machine belonging to the man who caused
the soul-wound, who knew Madeline Maitland's inmost heart better
than herself--because he had heard of Freud undoubtedly, when he
was in Vienna--who knew that he held her real love still, who
posed as a patient of Dr. Ross to learn her secrets as well as to
secure the subtle poison of the cobra. That man, perhaps, merely
brushed against Price Maitland in the crowd, enough to scratch his
hand with the needle, shove the false note into his pocket--
anything to win the woman who he knew loved him, and whom he could
win. Masterson, you are that man!"

The next half hour was crowded kaleidoscopically with events--the