Kennedy placed another film in the holder.

“You are now looking into the body of Montague Phelps,” he announced suddenly.

We leaned forward eagerly.  Mrs. Phelps gave a half-suppressed gasp.  What was the secret hidden in it?

There was the stomach, a curved sack something like a bagpipe or a badly made boot, with a tiny canal at the toe connecting it with the small intestine.  There were the heart and lungs.

“I have rendered the stomach visible,” resumed Kennedy, “made it ‘metallic,’ so to speak, by injecting a solution of bismuth in buttermilk, the usual method, by which it becomes more impervious to the X-rays and hence darker in the skiagraph.  I took these pictures not at the rate of fourteen or so a second, like the others, but at intervals of a few seconds.  I did that so that, when I run them off, I get a sort of compressed moving picture.  What you see in a short space of time actually took much longer to occur.  I could have either kind of picture, but I prefer the latter.

“For, you will take notice that there is movement here—­of the heart, of the lungs, of the stomach—­faint, imperceptible under ordinary circumstances, but nevertheless, movement.”

He was pointing at the lungs.  “A single peristaltic contraction takes place normally in a very few seconds.  Here it takes minutes.  And the stomach.  Notice what the bismuth mixture shows.  There is a very slow series of regular wave-contractions from the fundus to the pylorus.  Ordinarily one wave takes ten seconds to traverse it; here it is so slow as almost to be unnoticed.”

What was the implication of his startling, almost gruesome, discovery?  I saw it clearly, yet hung on his words, afraid to admit even to myself the logical interpretation of what I saw.

“Reconstruct the case,” continued Craig excitedly.  “Mr. Phelps, always a bon vivant and now so situated by marriage that he must be so, comes back to America to find his personal fortune—­gone.

“What was left?  He did as many have done.  He took out a new large policy on his life.  How was he to profit by it?  Others have committed suicide, have died to win.  Cases are common now where men have ended their lives under such circumstances by swallowing bichloride-of-mercury tablets, a favourite method, it seems, lately.

“But Phelps did not want to die to win.  Life was too sweet to him.  He had another scheme.”  Kennedy dropped his voice.

“One of the most fascinating problems in speculation as to the future of the race under the influence of science is that of suspended animation.  The usual attitude is one of reserve or scepticism.  There is no necessity for it.  Records exist of cases where vital functions have been practically suspended, with no food and little air.  Every day science is getting closer to the control of metabolism.  In the trance the body functions are so slowed as to simulate death.  You have heard of the Indian fakirs who bury themselves alive and are dug up days later?  You have doubted it.  But there is nothing improbable in it.