As Kennedy finished his version of our mission, Doctor Haynes shook his head with a deep sigh.
"You can understand how I feel toward the Blakeleys," he remarked, at length. "I should consider it unethical to give an interview under any circumstances—much more so under the present."
"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.