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THE DOTOR'S CLUE.*

By HAMLINE ZIMMERMAN.

HE house was a featureless brownstone front, like twenty others in the same part of West EightyThird Street. The man who ascended the steps was in love deeply, madly, passionately in love; within the house was the girl he loved, his Lucia; and yet it was not with joy, but with deep concern and apprehension, that he rang the bell.

At parting, the evening before, they had not quarreled as lovers quarrel. Rather had their motives for disagreeing been unselfish and noble. He had earnestly sought to dissuade her from a half-formed plan, seeking thereby what he was convinced was her highest, her only true interest. But she, a woman of character, of serious purpose, anxious, perpetually questioning her conscience, had persisted in carrying out an intention, over which she herself had spent hours of doubt and self-torment.

"Miss Garman is engaged with the doctor, Mr. Talbert," said the maid.

“I will wait,” he replied. "Do not announce me. I know my way. Yes-and I can attend to the lights, Marie. There is no need of your coming in.”

"Thank you, sir. I was just finishing my supper."

She went down the stairs to the basement, while Talbert, traversing the hall, made his way into the parlor, which lay at the back of the office.

The worst, then, had happened! In that office the man he most distrusted was, he could not doubt, practicing his hypnotism on the girl Talbert loved, abstracting from her her will, the human being's dearest possession. She was being made into a machine, a soulless flesh-andblood machine, complex, pliant to the doctor's will as no other machine can be pliant to the will of man.

It was too much for Talbert to bear quietly, and he rose and paced the soft carpet, racked with miserable doubt, almost ready to interrupt the experiment, yet deterred by his love for Lucia. After all, the doctor was her uncle and loved her, too of that there could be no question. Talbert could fear no personal harm to

They were agreed that hypnotism was a dangerous thing to play with-aye, and a dangerous thing to deal with seriously. To devitalize one's will, to submit oneself to another personalityolder, wiser, it might be, but still only humanthis seemed to him no less than monstrous. And so it had seemed to her, in some moods; her, yet he could not endure to have the thing but her conscience, persistently searching her motives for refusing, had found in them what might be selfishness or fear, the two faults she most detested. Talbert had left her half convinced, and now, with an anxious heart, had returned to learn her decision.

What resolve had the twenty-four hours brought her? Had her uncle. Dr. Owen Calder, again won her to his will? If so, what should Talbert do? Should he press his convictions further? Or should he acquiesce, yielding up his judgment, the sober judgment so dear to every serious-minded man? These were the doubts that harassed him; small wonder, then, if his lover's heart did not leap to be gone before him as he heard the lock click and saw the door open.

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Through the closed door he could hear the doctor's deep, soft, magnetic voice, speaking in words too low to be understood. The hypnotic influence was being applied. She had yielded to her uncle and disregarded her lover's wish. A sudden resolve came to him. He would at least listen. He was her accepted lover, was to be her husband. Her welfare was everything to him-yes, and his care for her ought to be everything to her. He stepped close to the door and listened.

"Do you see him?" came in the doctor's voice. "There he is the man you hate the man you would destroy! He is helpless, at your mercy. Now is your chance!”

The voice stopped. Talbert's blood ran cold with horrid imaginings. What a devil the man was! To try such an experiment with Luciahis Lucia, the sweetest, most loving of girls, without an enemy in the world! He laid his hand on the door-knob.

"That is right," began the doctor's voice again. "Now is your chance! Shoot!"

A shot rang out; then followed silence. Talbert hesitated. By entering he would incur the doctor's anger. For that he cared not a whit; but Lucia-what would she say? She might well resent such an intrusion.

Nevertheless, Talbert threw the door open. Lucia was close to him-so close that the door must almost have struck her arm. She stood as one dazed, staring toward a huddled figure in a chair across the room. Of Talbert she was quite oblivious.

He waited, trying to realize the situation. She slowly raised her arms above her head, then passed her hand across her brow, as if awaking from sleep. Then, with a sudden, low, despairing cry, she rushed toward the figure in the chair and sank on her knees beside it.

"Uncle! Uncle Owen!" she cried.

Her uncle did not answer. He sat collapsed, his head turned a little to the right and fallen against the chair-back. His right arm had been half outstretched, and now hung limp across the arm of the chair. In the white front of his evening shirt was a bullet-hole from which blood was oozing.

The whole horror of the situation burst on Talbert. The doctor, in trying one of his devilish experiments, had been shot-and Lucia had done the deed. No! She had not done it, in any real sense; she had merely been a tool in the doctor's hands. He had brought his fate upon himself; but what a fate had he brought upon Lucia!

What a fate! Ah, but there was Talbert himself! If ever she was to need him, she needed him now. Dragging himself by sheer force of will cut of his horror, he stepped forward quickly and stood beside her.

"Lucia!" he said.

She looked up at him.

"What has happened?" she asked in a half whisper. "Uncle Owen is dead. Somebody has shot him. Who was it?"

Talbert said not a word, but looked into her face, pity and grief dimming his eyes with tears. "Yes, Frank!" she went on, putting her finger to the bullet-hole and drawing it away to look at it.

"See, Frank, it is his blood! Who did it?" She looked again into his eyes, and he strove to keep calm. He could not find a word to utter. She gazed at him, and horror began to dawn upon her face.

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She looked at her hand again.

"I know you didn't do it, dearest!" said Talbert hoarsely, dropping on his knees and putting his arm around her.

"His blood is on my hands!" she said. "I don't remember. Could I have done it? I must have done it! No one else was here. I must have done it!"

Then the light of terror died out of her eyes, they closed, and her weight sank against him. She had fainted.

II

Talbert's instant impulse was to action. He must get Lucia away-that was his one thought. The servants would come. Why were they not here already, alarmed by the shot? He lifted her and laid her on the broad, soft couch which stood opposite the door; then he looked about him.

The door was still open, as he had left it. Framed in it, a motionless picture of astonishment, was Arthur Vayle, Lucia's cousin and his own intimate friend.

66

"What?" began Vayle; but Talbert, with three strides, had already grasped his hand and pulled him into the room, closing the door instantly.

"Don't you see?" whispered Talbert fiercely, pointing to the dead man. Then, wheeling swiftly about, he pointed to Lucia. "What is it to be now?" he asked in tones of menace. "Will you help, or must I stop your mouth?" Vayle's face grew grave.

"Who killed him?" he asked.

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For answer, Vayle lifted the girl in his arms. "See if the coast is clear," he said. "If not, get the people out of the way. I will carry her to her room."

No one was in sight, and Vayle disappeared with the girl. Talbert closed the office door and looked about the room.

Few physicians would fit up an office in such luxury. Paintings rare and costly, hangings on the walls, the furriture heavy and sumptuously upholstered, a thick, soft carpet of dull red covering the whole floor, priceless rugs-these

things were in contradiction to the medical apparatus that was to be seen. There were the case of books, the operating-chair, the electrical machine, the glass-faced cabinet; but no letter files, none of the businesslike appurtenances of an active practice, were there. Dr. Calder had had little or no practice. His wealth made him independent of fees, and Talbert had known of more than one case in which he had grumbled over an emergency call-aye, and had even declined to go. Yet he kept his sign up and spent his working-day in this room, among his books and in the pursuit of his hobby, the hypnotism which had brought his death upon him..

Signs, however, of the crime were what Talbert was looking for. The huddled figure was still in the chair, and the crimson stain blotched the white shirt-front. He had been shot through the heart. That was indisputable.

Therefore,

there must have been a bullet, and the bullet must have been fired from a revolver or rifle. Where was the firearm? If Lucia had fired it, what had she done with it?

Talbert crossed the room to the spot where she had stood by the door. If she had fired the shot in the hypnotic state, why had she not dropped her weapon somewhere about? A costly rug was under his feet, its corner rumpled. He turned it over, but found nothing. He made a hasty tour of the whole room, determined, if a weapon could be found in the few minutes at his disposal, to secrete it. A wave of horror amounting almost to physical sickness swept over him as he realized how little escape there was -nay, no escape at all-from the conviction that Lucia had actually fired the shot.

By the corpse he stopped, searching carefully. Under the chair, behind it, he looked, and shuddered when his hand accidentally touched the cold face. Under the couch on which she had lain, under and behind the desk, in the corners of the room, behind the handsome six-foot Japanese screen which concealed the lavatory near the door everywhere he looked, but there was nothing; only the thick carpet of dull red stretching to the walls, which rose, their green cartridge-paper unmarred by mark or stain.

Plainly, there was not now time for a further examination. The servants would soon be here. He listened at that door, but heard nothing. Where was Vayle? Suppose Marie, or Chastain, the butler, should find him-it would look bad for him. Yet this thought scarcely troubled him, so engulfed was he in his thoughts of Lucia and her terrible plight. He sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hands,

trying to think her out of her frightful situation.

How long he had sat there he did not know, when the door opened and Vayle re-entered, closing it behind him. He was grim-faced, but calm.

"How is she?" asked Talbert. "All right."

"Is any one looking after her?"

"No. She came to herself immediately.” "Then no one but ourselves knows of this?" "No, thank God!"

"Thank God!" echoed Talbert..

The two men stood silent, eyeing each other. "I suppose there is no doubt of it, then??? said Vayle at last.

"Doubt of what?" asked Talbert. "Don't fence!" cried Vayle. "What do you suppose was the first thing she said?" "That she had killed her uncle!'' "Yes. And do you believe it?"

"God knows! I don't know what to believe!" said Talbert, covering his face with his hands. "Suppose you tell me what you know, then." The telling did not take Talbert long. When he had finished, another silence followed. "It looks bad- -as bad as it possibly can," said Vayle again.

"It does," assented Talbert. "One thing is certain-there is no guilt of any kind attaching to

her."

"No, but she says there is."

"Yes, that was her last word before she fainted."

"And that isn't all. She proposes to give herself up!"

"Of course! Just exactly what Lucia would do. Look here, Arthur, you're a lawyer. Would a jury convict her?"

"I don't know. The legal side of hypnotism is totally undefined in this country. There are precedents in France, I believe, but I don't know what would be done here. To one thing, however, I have made up my mind.”

"What is that?"

"We must prevent her from giving herself up."

"You're in the district attorney's office. Can't you keep this out of the hands of the police." Vayle mused.

"For a time, perhaps. But here is a houseful of servants. Something official will certainly be done. I can try to help, but sooner or later the police will get their finger in it.

"Tell me this, then. Suppose Lucia gives herself up, will that convict her?"

"No!" exclaimed Vayle. "That is, not if it is murder in the first degree."

"Which means?''

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"A deliberate murder, with malice prepense." "That is not the case here.' "No; and so I can't say what would happen. Look here, Frank. Do you think she killed him? No fencing, now. This is too serious for that." "No, I don't."

"Do you believe she fired the bullet?" Talbert hung his head. When he raised his face, it was beaded with the sweat of agony. "I see you do," said Vayle quietly. "Now, look here. If we can keep her from speaking, and notify the authorities ourselves, official inquiry will take the matter up. The whole household-Lucia, the servants, you and I will all come under suspicion. If we can only keep her still, it seems altogether possible that they will find no evidence against her. At any rate, we owe it to her to keep her out of it for the time being. If worst comes to worst, I don't think a jury would convict her.”

"That isn't enough!" cried Talbert. "Think of the effect on her! It would ruin her life! She would be a broken woman for the rest of her days! You know, we almost quarreled over this thing."

Vayle nodded.

"Brace up, for God's sake," cried Vayle. "What do you know about hypnotism? There may have been no shot, no bullet, no revolver in Lucia's hands. You may have been hynotized yourself."

"Go to Lucia!" cried Talbert. "Stop her; do something anything, but don't let her give herself up!"

"She will do nothing for an hour at least; but after that I can't answer for her." "Then get busy!"

"What shall I do?"

"Telephone your chief and police headquarters. We will remain here."

"We must remain here," responded Vayle slowly and seriously.

Talbert winced and flushed.

"You are unkind, Art," he said. "I know-'' 'Don't mistake me," rejoined Vayle. "I am involved, too. We have just the evidence of ourselves, and no more, that we are not guilty of this crime."

"You!" cried Talbert. "I know you were not in it!"'

"Exactly. And I know you were not." "How do you know?" asked Talbert defiantly. "Because I know you, my boy," answered the lawyer, laying his hand on the other's shoulder. "What have I spent these years in

"You were urging her not to be a subject dealing with criminals for, if I cannot be trusted of Uncle Owen's hypnotism."

"Yes. Now, once let her be fully convinced that she killed him, even though a jury should discharge her, I can see her giving her whole life up to some horrible atonement. It would almost be better for her to serve a sentence. Then she would have atoned in some measure, and she might escape the worst of her self-torture.'

"A sentence is quite out of the question,' answered Vayle. "We are wasting time in talking about it. I am going to try to prevent her from speaking. Have you found anything?" "No, and I am sure no revolver, at least is here. You see. I saw where she stood and where she went. There is no weapon here." Vayle stepped over to the corpse. "It is very strange," he said at last. "Somebody has put a bullet straight through his heart. No revolver can be found." He stopped, and paused for some moments. "Frank," he resumed, "I don't believe she shot Uncle Owen at all. No man can hypnotize a real bullet out of nothing. What's the matter?" he asked. Talbert had covered his face with his hands again.

"I heard him urging her to shoot," he replied slowly. "And I heard a real shot!"

to know an honest man when I see one?" A bell rang suddenly.

"What is that?" asked Talbert, with a start. "The door-bell!" cried Vayle. "Come, let's get out of here!"

They passed out quickly into the front parlor, and Vayle closed the office door behind them. "Come!" he whispered. "Let's go to Lucia!" "I thought we had to remain here," said Talbert in surprise.

"In the house, yes but not in this room, unless you want to be caught at once. Marie will be here immediately. Quickly, now!"

He pushed the bewildered Talbert before him through the portières into the rear parlor, then paused a moment to listen. Steps came tripping quickly upstairs from the servants' quarters, and the figure of Marie could be seen going toward the front door. The door opened, and there followed a gasp of alarm from Marie.

"What's the matter?" she exclaimed. "Matter!" replied a heavy masculine voice. "Don't try to bluff, girl!"'

"It's Grant, from police headquarters," whispered Vayle.

"Grant!" cried Talbert. "You mean an officer?"

"Yes; keep still-or go up to Lucia: I must hear this."

"Does Dr. Owen Calder live here?" asked Grant's voice.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know where he is?”
"Certainly. He is in his office."

"This is strange!" said the policeman. "Do you mean to say you know nothing about it?" "About what?"

"About the murder of Dr. Calder?"

"The murder of Dr. Calder!" repeated the girl in amazement. "What do you mean?''

"Come, show us in!" said Grant gruffly. "No nonsense, now! If this is a joke, it's a mighty poor one, and somebody will pay for it."

"Go to Lucia!" whispered Vayle, giving Talbert another push.

The lover disappeared. Vayle was about to do the same thing, but just that instant of time cut off retreat for him. The heavy tread of the officers came up the hall toward the door into the parlor. Through this door, on a slant, could be seen the portières where Vayle stood, and through which he had pushed Talbert. Alert and keen, he recognized the fact that he might already have been seen, and he turned to the officer.

III

"Who's that?" were Grant's words.

Vayle found himself looking into the muzzle of a revolver, with a grim face beneath an officer's cap, behind it. Behind Grant was another policeman, and behind him Marie's pale, terrified countenance.

"Don't you know me, Grant?" asked Vayle calmly.

"Why, it's Mr. Vayle!" exclaimed Grant, lowering his weapon.

"At your service, but not just ready to die as yet. May I inquire why your gun is pointed at me?"

"I didn't know it was you. I'm looking for the murderer.'

"The murderer!'' cried Vayle, with well-simulated surprise. "And, pray, who has been murdered? I think you had better put up that gun and explain at once."

"We were told that, Dr. Calder had been murdered," said Grant, putting the revolver away.

"Told!" cried Vayle, startled out of his feigned indignation, yet instantly realizing that this word might prove to be indiscreet. "By whom?"

But the blunder passed over Grant's head, so great was his confusion at his own mistake.

"I don't know," he said. "It was a telephone message."

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'And so you came in an took me for your man? Did you expect to find him hanging around here?" Vayle's accents were severe.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Vayle. I supposed, of course, that the call had come from some one in the house. The girl knew nothing about it, and when I saw a man I thought I ought to be ready."

"I should think you were ready! This isn't the Riggs case, with doubtful individuals hanging around."

A sheepish grin overspread Grant's face. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Vayle," he said again. "Of course you're right."

"As usual, Grant?"

"Well," admitted the officer, "you certainly had us beat on the Riggs case. But where is Dr. Calder?"

"I haven't seen him this evening," lied Vayle, so easily that it surprised him.

"He was in his office-" began Marie. "Let's look in the office, then," interrupted Vayle, anxious lest Lucia's name should be mentioned too soon.

He stepped forward and knocked on the office door. No response was heard. He knocked again. "He couldn't answer if he was dead," observed Grant.

The remark was ignored.

"Go in, if you want to," said Vayle. "I'm sorry for you if you're wrong. Dr. Calder happens to be my uncle, you know, and his temper is none too good."

"I'll go in, you bet your life!" cried Grant angrily.

He opened the door and entered. Curious, fascinated, all the others peered in at the grisly object in the chair. Marie shuddered, turned away, closed her eyes, and then looked back. Vayle found opportunity to catch her eye. A meaning look was not lost on her, and she nodded

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