med, "I was called to attend Miss
Fleming. I think the call came from her maid, Leila, but I am not sure.
She had suddenly been taken ill about an hour after dinner. She was
cyanotic, had a rapid pulse, and nausea. By means of stimulants I
succeeded in bringing her around, however, and she recovered. It looked
like acute gastritis.

"But last night, at about the same time, I was called again to see the
same girl. She was in an even more serious condition, with all the
former symptoms magnified, unconscious, and suffering severe pains in
the abdominal region. Her temperature was 103. Apparently there had been
too great a delay, for she died in spite of everything I could do
without regaining consciousness."

Kennedy regarded the Doctor's face pointedly. "Did the necropsy show
that she was--er--"

"No," interrupted the Doctor, catching his glance. "She was not about to
become a mother. And I doubt the suicide theory, too." He paused and
then after a moment's consideration, added deliberately, "When she
recovered from the first attack she seemed to have a horror of death and
could offer no explanation of her sudden illness."

"But what other reason could there have been for her condition?"
persisted Kennedy, determined to glean all he could of the Doctor's
personal impressions.

Dr. Blythe hesitated again, as if considering a point in medical ethics,
then suddenly seemed to allow himself to grow confidential. "I'm very
much interested in art myself, Professor," he explained. "I suppose you
have heard of the famous 'Fete du Printemps,' by Watteau?"

Kennedy nodded vaguely.

"The original, you know," Dr. Blythe went on hurriedly, "hung in the
chateau of the Comtesse de la Fontaine in the Forest of Compiegne, and
was immensely valuable--oh--worth probably a hundred thousand dollars or
more."

A moment later Dr. Blythe leaned over with ill-suppressed excitement.
"After I brought her around the first time she confided to me that it
had been entrusted to her by the Comtesse for safe-keeping during the
war, that she had taken it first to London, but fearing it would not be
safe even there, had brought it to New York."

"H'm," mused Kennedy, "that is indeed strange. What's your theory,
then,--foul play?"

Dr. Blythe looked from Kennedy to me, then said slowly, "Yes--but we
can't find a trace of poison. Dr. Leslie--the Coroner--I believe you
know him--and I can find nothing, in fact. It is most incomprehensible."

I