Sucks books

In the balmy sunshine the convalescing patients
were sitting on benches or slowly trying their strength, walking
over the grass, clad in faded hospital bathrobes.
We entered the office and quickly were conducted by an orderly to
a little laboratory in a distant wing.
"What's the matter?" asked Craig, as we hurried along.
"I don't know exactly," replied the man, "except that it seems
that Price Maitland, the broker, you know, was picked up on the
street and brought here dying. He died before the doctors could
relieve him."
Dr. Leslie was waiting impatiently for us. "What do you make of
that, Professor Kennedy?"
The coroner spread out on the table before us a folded half-sheet
of typewriting and searched Craig's face eagerly to see what
impression it made on him.
"We found it stuffed in Maitland's outside coat pocket," he
explained.
It was dateless and brief:
Dearest Madeline:
May God in his mercy forgive me for what I am about to do. I have
just seen Dr. Ross. He has told me the nature of your illness.


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