"If you can give me just a card," urged Kennedy, "that is all
Doctor Burr wishes."

Cranston wrote hastily on the back of one of his cards what
Kennedy dictated.

Please allow Doctor Kennedy to make a psychanalysis of my
wife's mental condition.

"You will let me know--if there is--any hope?" he asked.

"As soon as I can," replied Kennedy, "I'll let you have a copy of
my report."

Cranston thanked us and bowed us to the door suavely.

"Well," I remarked, as we rode down in the elevator, "that was
clever. He fell for it, too. You're an artist. Do you think he was
posing?"

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders.

We lost no time in getting the first train for Montrose, before
Cranston had time to reconsider and call up Doctor Burr.

The Belleclaire Sanatorium was on the outskirts of the town. It
was an old stone house, rather dingy, and surrounded by a high
stone wall surmounted by sharp pickets.