“Virgie!  Virgie!” called Mrs. Blakeley, dropping on her knee beside her daughter.

“I’m here—­mother!”

Virginia’s eyes opened ever so slightly.  Her face turned just an inch or two.  She seemed to be making a great effort, but it lasted only a moment.  Then she slipped back into the strange condition that had baffled skilled physicians and surgeons for nearly a week.

“The sleep is being dispelled,” said Kennedy, quietly placing his hand on Mrs. Blakeley’s shoulder.  “It is a sort of semi-consciousness now and the improvement should soon be great.”

“And that?” I asked, touching the empty ampule from which he had injected the contents into her.

“Pituitrin—­the extract of the anterior lobe of the pituitary body.  Some one who had an object in removing her temporarily probably counted on restoring her to her former blooming womanhood by pituitrin—­and by removing the cause of the trouble.”

Kennedy reached into his pocket and drew forth the second X-ray photograph he had taken.  “Mrs. Blakeley, may I trouble you to get that beauty mask which your daughter wore?”

Mechanically Mrs. Blakeley obeyed.  I expected Chapelle to object, but not a word broke the death-like stillness.

“The narcolepsy,” continued Kennedy, taking the mask, “was due, I find, to something that affected the pituitary gland.  I have here a photograph of her taken when she was wearing the mask.”  He ran his finger lightly over the part just above the eyes.  “Feel that little lump, Walter,” he directed.

I did so.  It was almost imperceptible, but there was something.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Located in one of the best protected and most inaccessible parts of the body,” Kennedy considered, slowly, “how could the pituitary be reached?  If you will study my skiagraph, you will see how I got my first clue.  There was something over that spot which caused the refractory sore.  What was it?  Radium—­carefully placed in the mask with guards of lead foil in such a way as to protect the eyes, but direct the emission full at the gland which was to be affected, and the secretions stopped.”

Chapelle gave a gasp.  He was pale and agitated.

“Some of you have already heard of Reba Rinehart,” shot out Kennedy, suddenly changing the subject.

Mrs. Blakeley could not have been more astounded if a bomb had dropped before her.  Still kneeling before Virginia’s bed, she turned her startled face at Kennedy, clasping her hands in appeal.

“It was for my girls that I tried to buy her off—­for their good name—­their fortune—­their future,” she cried, imploringly.

Kennedy bent down, “I know that is all,” he reassured, then, facing us, went on:  “Behind that old woman was a secret of romantic interest.  She was contemplating filing suit in the courts to recover a widow’s interest in the land on which now stand the homes of millionaires, hotel palaces, luxurious apartments, and popular theaters—­millions of dollars’ worth of property.”