“Again, 2964375,” he shot out.
“269,” she hesitated, “73—” she stopped.
It was evident that she had reached the limit.
Kennedy smiled, paid the check and we parted at the door.
“What was all that rigmarole?” I inquired as the white figure disappeared down the street.
“Part of the Binet test, seeing how many digits one can remember. An adult ought to remember from eight to ten, in any order. But she has the mentality of a child. That is the queer thing about her. Chronologically she may be eighteen years or so old. Mentally she is scarcely more than eight. Mrs. Sutphen was right. They have made a fiend out of a mere child—a defective who never had a chance against them.”
CHAPTER XXVII
THE LIE DETECTOR
As the horror of it all dawned on me, I hated Armstrong worse than ever, hated Whitecap, hated the man higher up, whoever he might be, who was enriching himself out of the defective, as well as the weakling, and the vicious—all three typified by Snowbird, Armstrong and Whitecap.
Having no other place to go, pending further developments of the publicity we had given the drug war in the Star, Kennedy and I decided on a walk home in the bracing night air.
We had scarcely entered the apartment when the hall boy called to us frantically: “Some one’s been trying to get you all over town, Professor Kennedy. Here’s the message. I wrote it down. An attempt has been made to poison Mrs. Sutphen. They said at the other end of the line that you’d know.”