"Then you knew all about—what was going on, all along?" inquired Kennedy.
"I had my suspicions," the doctor replied, airily. "I cannot afford to be held up to ridicule. It was a matter of saving my very career. As for the Wilford story—pouf! I don't care a rap about it—that is, I didn't until the gossips added the Shattuck scandal to it."
Whatever he might say, it was evident that his lips belied his real feelings. He was really bitter both toward the memory of Wilford and toward Shattuck as well, conceal it as much as he might try.
"Then you credit the Shattuck rumors?" demanded Kennedy.
"I won't say," snapped the doctor, testily.
"Where has Mrs. Lathrop gone?" asked Kennedy, point-blank.
"How do I know?" bridled Lathrop. "I've heard her talk about friends at the Sainte-Germaine—perhaps you might find her there. You're a detective," he added, coolly, then suddenly: "That's right. Get her side of the story. Play it up, if you like. You might as well. Yes, by all means. Then perhaps I can set you right on some points. Don't mind me. Good morning, gentlemen," he bustled, taking up his black doctor's bag. "I have a very serious case waiting for me."
Kennedy did not comment as we left, but beckoned quickly to a vacant taxicab and we were whisked to the Sainte-Germaine.
I knew it was of no use to try to see Mrs. Lathrop in the ordinary manner, and, therefore, adopted one of my many newspaper ruses to find out where her room was and then to get to it.
As she opened the door to what seemed to be an innocent knock from a chambermaid or bell-hop, she exclaimed in surprise at seeing Kennedy and myself.