Now I find I am being held here as an insane patient. I cannot get out. I do not even know whether this letter will reach you. But the chambermaid here has told me she will post it for me.
I am ill and nervous—a wreck, but not insane, although they will tell you that the twilight-sleep treatment affected my mind. But what is happening here will eventually drive me insane if some one does not come to my rescue.
Cannot you get in to see me as a doctor or friend? I will leave all to you after that.
Yours anxiously,
JANET (MRS. ROGER) CRANSTON.
"What do you make of it yourself?" I returned, handing back the letter.
"Are you going to take it up?" He slowly looked over the letter again.
"Judging by the handwriting," he remarked, thoughtfully, "I should say that the writer is laboring under keen excitement—though there is no evidence of insanity on the face of it. Yes; I think I'll take up the case."
"But how are you going to get in?" I asked. "They'll never admit you willingly."
Kennedy pondered a minute. "I'll get in, all right," he said, at length; "come on—I'm going to call on Roger Cranston first."
"Roger Cranston?" I repeated, dumfounded. "Why, he'll never help you!
Ten to one he's in on it."