“In all this strange tangle of events,” remarked Kennedy, surveying the pile with obvious satisfaction, “I find that the precise instruments of science have told me one more thing.  Some one else discovered Mrs. Willoughby’s weakness, led her on, suggested opportunities to her, used her again and again, profited by her malady, probably to the extent of thousands of dollars.  My telegraphone record hinted at that.  In some way Annie Grayson secured the confidence of Mrs. Willoughby.  The one took for the sake of taking; the other received for the sake of money.  Mrs. Willoughby was easily persuaded by her new friend to leave here what she had stolen.  Besides, having taken it, she had no further interest in it.

“The rule of law is that every one is responsible who knows the nature and consequences of his act.  We have absolute proof that you, Annie Grayson, although you did not actually commit any of the thefts yourself, led Mrs. Willoughby on and profited by her.  Dr. Guthrie will take care of the case of Mrs. Willoughby.  But the law must deal with you for playing on the insanity of a kleptomaniac—­the cleverest scheme yet of the queen of shoplifters.”

As Kennedy turned nonchalantly from the detectives who had seized Annie Grayson, he drew a little red folder from his pocket.

“You see, Walter,” he smiled, “how soon one gets into a habit?  I’m almost a regular commuter, now.  You know, they are always bringing out these little red folders just when things grow interesting.”

I glanced over his shoulder.  He was studying the local timetable.

“We can get the last train from Glenclair if we hurry,” he announced, stuffing the folder back into his pocket.  “They will take her to Newark by trolley, I suppose.  Come on.”

We made our hasty adieux and escaped as best we could the shower of congratulations.

“Now for a rest,” he said, settling back into the plush covered seat for the long ride into town, his hat down over his eyes and his legs hunched up against the back of the next seat.  Across in the tube and uptown in a nighthawk cab we went and at last we were home for a good sleep.

“This promises to be an off-day,” Craig remarked, the next morning over the breakfast table.  “Meet me in the forenoon and we’ll take a long, swinging walk.  I feel the need of physical exercise.”

“A mark of returning sanity!” I exclaimed.

I had become so used to being called out on the unexpected, now, that I almost felt that some one might stop us on our tramp.  Nothing of the sort happened, however, until our return.

Then a middle-aged man and a young girl, heavily veiled, were waiting for Kennedy, as we turned in from the brisk finish in the cutting river wind along the Drive.

“Winslow is my name, sir,” the man began, rising nervously as we entered the room, “and this is my only daughter, Ruth.”

Kennedy bowed and we waited for the man to proceed.  He drew his hand over his forehead which was moist with perspiration in spite of the season.  Ruth Winslow was an attractive young woman, I could see at a glance, although her face was almost completely hidden by the thick veil.