The next morning, after an hour or so spent in the laboratory apparently in confirming some control tests which Kennedy had laid out to make sure that he was not going wrong in the line of inquiry he was pursuing, we started off in a series of flying visits to the various sanitaria about the city in search of an inmate named Thornton.

I will not attempt to describe the many curious sights and experiences we saw and had.  I could readily believe that any one who spent even as little time as we did might almost think that the very world was going rapidly insane.  There were literally thousands of names in the lists which we examined patiently, going through them all, since Kennedy was not at all sure that Thornton might not be a first name, and we had no time to waste on taking any chances.

It was not until long after dusk that, weary with the search and dust-covered from our hasty scouring of the country in an automobile which Kennedy had hired after exhausting the city institutions, we came to a small private asylum up in Westchester.  I had almost been willing to give it up for the day, to start afresh on the morrow, but Kennedy seemed to feel that the case was too urgent to lose even twelve hours over.

It was a peculiar place, isolated, out-of-the-way, and guarded by a high brick wall that enclosed a pretty good sized garden.

A ring at the bell brought a sharp-eyed maid to the door.

“Have you—­er—­any one here named Thornton—­er—?” Kennedy paused in such a way that if it were the last name he might come to a full stop, and if it were a first name he could go on.

“There is a Mr. Thornton who came yesterday,” she snapped ungraciously, “but you can not see him, It’s against the rules.”

“Yes—­yesterday,” repeated Kennedy eagerly, ignoring her tartness.  “Could I—­” he slipped a crumpled treasury note into her hand—­ “could I speak to Mr. Thornton’s nurse?”

The note seemed to render the acidity of the girl slightly alkaline.  She opened the door a little further, and we found ourselves in a plainly furnished reception room, alone.

We might have been in the reception-room of a prosperous country gentleman, so quiet was it.  There was none of the raving, as far as I could make out. that I should have expected even in a twentieth century Bedlam, no material for a Poe story of Dr. Tarr and Professor Feather.

At length the hall door opened, and a man entered, not a prepossessing man, it is true, with his large and powerful hands and arms and slightly bowed, almost bulldog legs.  Yet he was not of that aggressive kind which would make a show of physical strength without good and sufficient cause.

“You have charge of Mr. Thornton?” inquired Kennedy.

“Yes,” was the curt response.

“I trust he is all right here?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he was all right,” was the quick reply.  “And who might you be?”