Back again in the laboratory to which Atherton insisted on accompanying us in his car, Kennedy busied himself for a few minutes, crushing up one of the tablets and trying one or two reactions with some of the powder dissolved, while I looked on curiously.
“Craig,” I remarked contemplatively, after a while, “how about Atherton himself? Is he really free from the—er—stigmata, I suppose you call them, of insanity?”
“You mean, may the whole trouble lie with him?” he asked, not looking up from his work.
“Yes—and the effect on her be a sort of reflex, say, perhaps the effect of having sold herself for money and position. In other words, does she, did she, ever love him? We don’t know that. Might it not prey on her mind, until with the kind help of his precious relatives even Nature herself could not stand the strain—especially in the delicate condition in which she now finds herself?”
I must admit that I felt the utmost sympathy for the poor girl whom we had just seen such a pitiable wreck.
Kennedy closed his eyes tightly until they wrinkled at the corners.
“I think I have found out the immediate cause of her trouble,” he said simply, ignoring my suggestion.
“What is it?” I asked eagerly.
“I can’t imagine how they could have failed to guess it, except that they never would have suspected to look for anything resembling exophthalmic goiter in a person of her stamina,” he answered, pronouncing the word slowly. “You have heard of the thyroid gland in the neck?”
“Yes?” I queried, for it was a mere name to me.