The doctor paused, and Craig inclined his head, as much as to signify his appreciation of the delicate position in which Burnham stood in the case.  Before the doctor could proceed further, Kennedy handed me a letter which had been lying before him on the table.  It had evidently been torn into small pieces and then carefully pasted together.

The superscription gave a small town in Ohio and a date about a fortnight previous.

Dear Father [it read]:  I hope you will pardon me for writing, but I cannot let the occasion of your seventy-fifth birthday pass without a word of affection and congratulation.  I am alive and well—­Time has dealt leniently with me in that respect, if not in money matters.  I do not say this in the hope of reconciling you to me.  I know that is impossible after all these cruel years.  But I do wish that I could see you again.  Remember, I am your only child and even if you still think I have been a foolish one, please let me come to see you once before it is too late.  We are constantly travelling from place to place, but shall be here for a few days.

Your loving daughter,

Grace Haswell Martin.

“Some fourteen or fifteen years ago,” explained the doctor as I looked up from reading the note, “Mr. Haswell’s only daughter eloped with an artist named Martin.  He had been engaged to paint a portrait of the late Mrs. Haswell from a photograph.  It was the first time that Grace Haswell had ever been able to find expression for the artistic yearning which had always been repressed by the cold, practical sense of her father.  She remembered her mother perfectly since the sad bereavement of her girlhood and naturally she watched and helped the artist eagerly.  The result was a portrait which might well have been painted from the subject herself rather than from a cold photograph.

“Haswell saw the growing intimacy of his daughter and the artist.  His bent of mind was solely toward money and material things, and he at once conceived a bitter and unreasoning hatred for Martin, who, he believed, had ‘schemed’ to capture his daughter and an easy living.  Art was as foreign to his nature as possible.  Nevertheless they went ahead and married, and, well, it resulted in the old man disinheriting the girl.  The young couple disappeared bravely to make their way by their chosen profession and, as far as I know, have never been heard from since until now.  Haswell made a new will and I have always understood that practically all of his fortune is to be devoted to founding the technology department in a projected university of Brooklyn.”

“You have never seen this Mrs. Martin or her husband?” asked Kennedy.

“No, never.  But in some way she must have learned that I had some influence with her father, for she wrote to me not long ago, enclosing a note for him and asking me to intercede for her.  I did so.  I took the letter to him as diplomatically as I could.  The old man flew into a towering rage, refused even to look at the letter, tore it up into bits, and ordered me never to mention the subject to him again.  That is her note, which I saved.  However, it is the sequel about which I wish your help.”