“Oh, making her feel that, after all, it is Atherton family rather than Gilman health that counts—­little remarks that when our baby is born, they hope it will resemble Quincy rather than Eugenia, and all that sort of thing, only worse and more cutting, until the thing has begun to prey on her mind.”

“I see,” remarked Kennedy thoughtfully.  “But don’t you think this is a case for a—­a doctor, rather than a detective?”

Atherton glanced up quickly.  “Kennedy,” he answered slowly, “where millions of dollars are involved, no one can guess to what lengths the human mind will go—­no one, except you.”

“Then you have suspicions of something worse?”

“Y-yes—­but nothing definite.  Now, take this case.  If I should die childless, after my wife, the Atherton estate would descend to my nearest relative, Burroughs Atherton, a cousin.”

“Unless you willed it to—­”

“I have already drawn a will,” he interrupted, “and in case I survive Eugenia and die childless, the money goes to the founding of a larger Eugenics Bureau, to prevent in the future, as much as possible, tragedies such as this of which I find myself a part.  If the case is reversed, Eugenia will get her third and the remainder will go to the Bureau or the Foundation, as I call the new venture.  But,” and here young Atherton leaned forward and fixed his large eyes keenly on us, “Burroughs might break the will.  He might show that I was of unsound mind, or that Eugenia was, too.”

“Are there no other relatives?”

“Burroughs is the nearest,” he replied, then added frankly, “I have a second cousin, a young lady named Edith Atherton, with whom both Burroughs and I used to be very friendly.”

It was evident from the way he spoke that he had thought a great deal about Edith Atherton, and still thought well of her.

“Your wife thinks it is Burroughs who is persecuting her?” asked Kennedy.

Atherton shrugged his shoulders.

“Does she get along badly with Edith?  She knows her I presume?”

“Of course.  The fact is that since the death of her mother, Edith has been living with us.  She is a splendid girl, and all alone in the world now, and I had hopes that in New York she might meet some one and marry well.”

Kennedy was looking squarely at Atherton, wondering whether he might ask a question without seeming impertinent.  Atherton caught the look, read it, and answered quite frankly, “To tell the truth, I suppose I might have married Edith, before I met Eugenia, if Professor Crafts had not dissuaded me.  But it wouldn’t have been real love—­nor wise.  You know,” he went on more frankly, now that the first hesitation was over and he realized that if he were to gain anything at all by Kennedy’s services, there must be the utmost candor between them, “you know cousins may marry if the stocks are known to be strong.  But if there is a defect, it is almost sure to be intensified.  And so I—­I gave up the idea—­never had it, in fact, so strongly as to propose to her.  And when I met Eugenia all the Athertons on the family tree couldn’t have bucked up against the combination.”