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“Yes,” prompted Kennedy.

“The bull-serpent, she admitted, had a half-human face–the face of Arnold Masterson!”

Was Dr. Ross desperately shifting suspicion from himself? I asked.

“Very strange–very,” ruminated Kennedy. “That reminds me again. I wonder if you could let me have a sample of this cobra venom?”

“Surely. Excuse me; I’ll get you some.”

The doctor had scarcely shut the door when Kennedy began prowling around quietly. In the waiting-room, which was now deserted, stood a typewriter.

Quickly Craig ran over the keys of the machine until he had a sample of every character. Then he reached into drawer of the desk and hastily stuffed several blank sheets of paper into his pocket.

“Of course I need hardly caution you in handling this,” remarked Dr. Ross, as he returned. “You are as well acquainted as I am with the danger attending its careless and unscientific uses.” “I am, and I thank you very much,” said Kennedy.

We were standing in the waiting-room.

“You will keep me advised of any progress you make in the case?” the doctor asked. “It complicates, as you can well imagine, my treatment of Mrs. Maitland.”

“I shall be glad to do so,” replied Kennedy, as we departed.

An hour later found us in a handsomely appointed bachelor apartment in a fashionable hotel overlooking the lower entrance to the Park.

“Mr. Masterson, I believe?” inquired Kennedy, as a slim, debonair, youngish-old man entered the room in which we had been waiting.

“I am that same,” he smiled. “To what am I indebted for this pleasure?”

We had been gazing at the various curios with which he had made the room a veritable den of the connoisseur.

“You have evidently travelled considerably,” remarked Kennedy, avoiding the question for the time.

“Yes, I have been back in this country only a few weeks,” Masterson replied, awaiting the answer to the first question.

“I called,” proceeded Kennedy, “in the hope that you, Mr. Masterson, might be able to shed some light on the rather peculiar case of Mr. Maitland, of whose death, I suppose, you have already heard.”

“I?”

“You have known Mrs. Maitland a long time?” ignored Kennedy.

“We went to school together.”

“And were engaged, were you not?”

Masterson looked at Kennedy in ill-concealed surprise.

“Yes. But how did you know that? It was a secret–only between us two–I thought. She broke it off–not I.”

“She broke off the engagement?” prompted Kennedy.

“Yes–a story about an escapade of mine and all that sort of thing, you know–but, by Jove! I like your nerve, sir.” Masterson frowned, then added: “I prefer not to talk of that. There are some incidents in a man’s life, particularly where a woman is concerned, that are forbidden.”

“Oh, I beg pardon,” hastened Kennedy, “but, by the way, you would have no objection to making a statement regarding your trip abroad and your recent return to this country–subsequent to–ah–the incident which we will not refer to?”

“None whatever. I left New York in 1908, disgusted with everything in general, and life here in particular–“

“Would you object to jotting it down so that I can get it straight?” asked Kennedy. “Just a brief resume, you know.”

“No. Have you a pen or a pencil?”

“I think you might as well dictate it; it will take only a minute to run it off on the typewriter.”

Masterson rang the bell. A young man appeared noiselessly.

“Wix,” he said, “take this: ‘I left New York in 1908, travelling on the Continent, mostly in Paris, Vienna, and Rome. Latterly I have lived in London, until six weeks ago, when I returned to New York.’ Will that serve?”

“Yes, perfectly,” said Kennedy, as he folded up the sheet of paper which the young secretary handed to him. “Thank you. I trust you won’t consider it an impertinence if I ask you whether you were aware that Dr. Ross was Mrs. Maitland’s physician?”

“Of course I knew it,” Masterson replied frankly. “I have given him up for that reason, although he does not know it yet. I most strenuously object to being the subject of–what shall I call it?–his mental vivisection.”

“Do you think he oversteps his position in trying to learn of the mental life of his patients?” queried Craig.

“I would rather say nothing further on that, either,” replied Masterson. “I was talking over the wire to Mrs. Maitland a few moments ago, giving her my condolences and asking if there was anything I could do for her immediately, just as I would have done in the old days–only then, of course, I should have gone to her directly. The reason I did not go, but telephoned, was because this Ross seems to have put some ridiculous notions into her head about me. Now, look here; I don’t want to discuss this. I’ve told you more than I intended, anyway.”

Masterson had risen. His suavity masked a final determination to say no more.