“Still,” I put in, taking Kennedy’s cue, “just a word to set me straight can’t do any harm.  I won’t quote you directly.”

He seemed to realize that it might be better to talk carefully than to leave all to my imagination.

“Well,” he began, slowly, “I have considered all the usual causes assigned for such morbid sleep.  It is not auto-suggestion or trance, I am positive.  Nor is there any trace of epilepsy.  I cannot see how it could be due to poisoning, can you?”

I admitted readily that I could not.

“No,” he resumed, “it is just a case of what we call narcolepsy—­ pathological somnolence—­a sudden, uncontrollable inclination to sleep, occurring sometimes repeatedly or at varying intervals.  I don’t think it hysterical, epileptic, or toxemic.  The plain fact of the matter, gentlemen, is that neither myself nor any of my colleagues whom I have consulted have the faintest idea what it is—­yet.”

The door of the office opened, for it was not the hour for consulting patients, and a tall, athletic young fellow, with a keen and restless face, though very boyish, entered.

“My son,” the doctor introduced, “soon to be the sixth Doctor Haynes in direct line in the family.”

We shook hands.  It was evident that Cynthia had not by any means exaggerated when she said that he was frantic over what had happened to his fiancee.

Accordingly, there was no difficulty in reverting to the subject of our visit.  Gradually I let Kennedy take the lead in the conversation so that our position might not seem to be false.

It was not long before Craig managed to inject a remark about the red spot over Virginia’s nose.  It seemed to excite young Hampton.

“Naturally I look on it more as a doctor than a lover,” remarked his father, smiling indulgently at the young man, whom it was evident he regarded above everything else in the world.  “I have not been able to account for it, either.  Really the case is one of the most remarkable I have ever heard of.”

“You have heard of a Dr. Carl Chapelle?” inquired Craig, tentatively.

“A beauty doctor,” interrupted the young man, turning toward his father.  “You’ve met him.  He’s the fellow I think is really engaged to Cynthia.”

Hampton seemed much excited.  There was unconcealed animosity in the manner of his remark, and I wondered why it was.  Could there be some latent jealousy?

“I see,” calmed Doctor Haynes.  “You mean to infer that this—­er—­ this Doctor Chapelle—­” He paused, waiting for Kennedy to take the initiative.

“I suppose you’ve noticed over Miss Blakeley’s nose a red sore?” hazarded Kennedy.

“Yes,” replied Doctor Haynes, “rather refractory, too.  I—­”

“Say,” interrupted Hampton, who by this time had reached a high pitch of excitement, “say, do you think it could be any of his confounded nostrums back of this thing?”