The War Terror HTML version

The Soul-Analysis
"Here's the most remarkable appeal," observed Kennedy, one morning, as he tossed over
to me a letter. "What do you make of that?" It read:
You do not know me, but I have heard a great deal about you. Please, I beg of you, do not
disregard this letter. At least try to verify the appeal I am making.
I am here at the Belleclaire Sanatorium, run by Dr. Bolton Burr, in Montrose. But it is not
a real sanatorium. It is really a private asylum.
Let me tell my story briefly. After my baby was born I devoted myself to it. But, in spite
of everything, it died. Meanwhile my husband neglected me terribly. After the baby's
death I was a nervous wreck, and I came up here to rest.
Now I find I am being held here as an insane patient. I cannot get out. I do not even know
whether this letter will reach you. But the chambermaid here has told me she will post it
for me.
I am ill and nervous--a wreck, but not insane, although they will tell you that the twilight-
sleep treatment affected my mind. But what is happening here will eventually drive me
insane if some one does not come to my rescue.
Cannot you get in to see me as a doctor or friend? I will leave all to you after that.
Yours anxiously,
"What do you make of it yourself?" I returned, handing back the letter. "Are you going to
take it up?" He slowly looked over the letter again.
"Judging by the handwriting," he remarked, thoughtfully, "I should say that the writer is
laboring under keen excitement--though there is no evidence of insanity on the face of it.
Yes; I think I'll take up the case."
"But how are you going to get in?" I asked. "They'll never admit you willingly."
Kennedy pondered a minute. "I'll get in, all right," he said, at length; "come on--I'm going
to call on Roger Cranston first."