"Dr. Schuyler hopes you'll be able to, and so do I—though I don't see just how you're going to do it."
"Oh, I think I'll be able to do it—you see, we've got a starting-point now. But I'll have to go to New York. Won't you come along?"
I was tempted.
"How long will it take?" I asked.
"Not over three or four hours. You ought to get to bed by midnight, and you can come down in the morning for the inquest."
I saw that he wanted me; the temptation was too strong to be resisted.
An hour later we were in the office of the Bloomingsdale asylum.
"It was about twenty years ago that Miss Kingdon was admitted," said Godfrey to the chief physician, whose interest he had enlisted, and who had been busy getting out the records, "and she remained here about a year before she was discharged as cured."
"There oughtn't to be any trouble finding it," said the chief. "In fact, there ought to be a voluminous record of a case like that. Let me see—Kingdon—Kingdon," and he ran his finger down an index. "No, I don't see it—this covers five years."