Then he came in and spent half an hour
restoring his acid-stained fingers to something like human
semblance.
He said nothing about his research work of the day, and I was just
about to remark that a day had passed without its usual fresh
alarum and excursion, when a tap on the door buzzer was followed
by the entrance of our old friend Andrews, head of the Great
Eastern Life Insurance Company's own detective service.
"Kennedy," he began, "I have a startling case for you. Can you
help me out with it?"
As he sat down heavily, he pulled from his immense black wallet
some scraps of paper and newspaper cuttings.
"You recall, I suppose," he went on, unfolding the papers without
waiting for an answer, "the recent death of young Montague Phelps,
at Woodbine, just outside the city?"
Kennedy nodded. The death of Phelps, about ten days before, had
attracted nation-wide attention because of the heroic fight for
life he had made against what the doctors admitted had puzzled
them--a new and baffling manifestation of coma.
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