Briefly he told his story.
"Well, but the telegram?" Peter insisted. "Does it help—tell you anything? It's maddening—to think Marian may be in the power of that bloodthirsty—!"
"There you go again!" P. Sybarite complained—"and not two minutes ago I warned you about that habit. Wait: I've had time only to run an eye through this: let me get the sense of it."
Peter peering over his shoulder, the two conned the message in silence:
BAYARD SHAYNON
Monastery Apts., W. 43rd, N.Y.C.
Your wire received all preparations made send patient in charge as indicated at convenience legal formalities can wait as you suggest.
HAYNES PRIVATE SANATORIUM.
Blankly Peter Kenny looked at his cousin; with eyes in which deepening understanding mingled with anger as deep, and with profound misgivings as well, P. Sybarite returned his stare.
"It's as plain as the face on you, Peter Kenny. Why, all along I've had an indefinite notion that something of the sort was what they were brewing! Don't you see—'private sanatorium'? What more proof do you need of a plot to railroad Marian to a private institution for the insane? 'Legal formalities can wait as you suggest'—of course! They hadn't had time to cook up the necessary papers, to suborn medical certificates and purchase a commitment paper of some corrupt judge. But what of that?" P. Sybarite demanded, slapping the message furiously. "She was in the way—at large—liable at any time to do something that would put her money forever out of their reach. Therefore she must be put away at once, pending 'legal formalities' to ensure her permanent incarceration!"
"The dogs!" Peter Kenny growled.