go next. Perhaps it will
strike me--or my brother, Lionel--who can tell? Think of it--the whole
family wiped out by this terrible thing. Can it be natural, I ask
myself? Is there not something back of it?"

"Who is this Dr. Loeb?" asked Kennedy, more for the purpose of aiding
her in giving vent to her feelings than anything else.

"He is a New York doctor," she reiterated. "I believe he claims to have
a sure cure for cancer, by the use of radium and such means. My father
has absolute confidence in him--visits him at his office and, as I told
you, even has him at Norwood. In fact they are quite friendly. So was
Lionel until lately."

"What happened to shake your brother's faith?" asked Craig.

"Nothing, I imagine, except that Lionel began thinking it over after
someone told him about cancer houses. You must admit yourself that it
is--at least strange. I wish you could see Lionel. He knows more about
it than I do. Or Dr. Goode. I think he has made some kind of test. He
could tell you much better than I can all the strange history. But they
don't agree--Lionel and Gail. Oh--it is more than I can stand. What
shall I--"

She had fainted. In an instant I was at her side, helping Kennedy bring
her around.

"There, there," soothed Kennedy several minutes later as her deep eyes
looked at him appealingly. "Perhaps, after all, there may be something I
can do. If I should go out to Norwood with you as soon as you feel
better, wouldn't that be all right?"

"Oh--will you?" she cried, overjoyed. "If you would--how could I ever
thank you? I feel better. No--don't stop me. I've been living on nerve.
I can do more. Please--let me telephone Lionel that we are coming."

Kennedy humored her, although I knew he had several important
investigations going on at the time. It was scarcely an hour before we
were on the train and in the early forenoon we were met by her brother
at the station in a light car.

Through the beautiful streets of the quaint old Connecticut town we rode
until at last we stopped before a great stone house which had been the
Moreton mansion for several generations.

It was a double house, a gloomy sort of place, surrounded by fir trees,
damp and suggestive of decay. I could not help feeling that if ever
there were a house about which I could associate the story which Myra
had poured forth, this was it. Somehow, to me at least, it had all the
mystery of being haunted.

Darius Moreton, her father, happened to