Part 57 (1/2)
No one moved a muscle. If there was anyone in the room guilty of playing on the feelings and the health of an unfortunate woman, that person must have had superb control of his own feelings.
”As you know,” resumed Kennedy thoughtfully, ”there are and have been many theories of s.e.x control. One of the latest, but by no means the only one, is that it can be done by use of the extracts of various glands administered to the mother. I do not know with what scientific authority it was stated, but I do know that some one has recently said that adrenalin, derived from the suprarenal glands, induces boys to develop--cholin, from the bile of the liver, girls. It makes no difference--in this case. There may have been a show of science. But it was to cover up a crime. Some one has been administering to Eugenia Atherton tablets of thyroid extract--ostensibly to aid her in fulfilling the dearest ambition of her soul--to become the mother of a new line of Athertons which might bear the same relation to the future of the country as the great family of the Edwards mothered by Elizabeth Tuttle.”
He was bending over the two phonograph cylinders now, rapidly comparing the new one which he had made and that which he had just allowed to reel off its astounding revelation.
”When a voice speaks into a phonograph,” he said, half to himself, ”its modulations received on the diaphragm are written by a needle point upon the surface of a cylinder or disk in a series of fine waving or zigzag lines of infinitely varying depth or breadth. Dr. Marage and others have been able to distinguish vocal sounds by the naked eye on phonograph records. Mr. Edison has studied them with the microscope in his world-wide search for the perfect voice.
”In fact, now it is possible to identify voices by the records they make, to get at the precise meaning of each slightest variation of the lines with mathematical accuracy. They can no more be falsified than handwriting can be forged so that modern science cannot detect it or than typewriting can be concealed and attributed to another machine.
The voice is like a finger print, a portrait parle--unescapable.”
He glanced up, then back again. ”This microscope shows me,” he said, ”that the voices on that cylinder you heard are identical with two on this record which I have just made in this room.”
”Walter,” he said, motioning to me, ”look.”
I glanced into the eyepiece and saw a series of lines and curves, peculiar waves lapping together and making an appearance in some spots almost like tooth marks. Although I did not understand the details of the thing, I could readily see that by study one might learn as much about it as about loops, whorls, and arches on finger tips.
”The upper and lower lines,” he explained, ”with long regular waves, on that highly magnified section of the record, are formed by the voice with no overtones. The three lines in the middle, with rhythmic ripples, show the overtones.”
He paused a moment and faced us. ”Many a person,” he resumed, ”is a biotype in whom a full complement of what are called inhibitions never develops. That is part of your eugenics. Throughout life, and in spite of the best of training, that person reacts now and then to a certain stimulus directly. A man stands high; once a year he falls with a lethal quant.i.ty of alcohol. A woman, brilliant, accomplished, slips away and spends a day with a lover as unlike herself as can be imagined.
”The voice that interests me most on these records,” he went on, emphasizing the words with one of the cylinders which he still held, ”is that of a person who has been working on the family pride of another. That person has persuaded the other to administer to Eugenia an extract because 'it must be a boy and an Atherton.' That person is a high-cla.s.s defective, born with a criminal instinct, reacting to it in an artful way. Thank G.o.d, the love of a man whom theoretical eugenics condemned, roused us in--”
A cry at the door brought us all to our feet, with hearts thumping as if they were bursting.
It was Eugenia Atherton, wild-eyed, erect, staring.
I stood aghast at the vision. Was she really to be the Lady Madeline in this fall of the House of Atherton?
”Edith--I--I missed you. I heard voices. Is--is it true--what this man--says? Is my--my baby--”
Quincy Atherton leaped forward and caught her as she reeled. Quickly Craig threw open a window for air, and as he did so leaned far out and blew shrilly on a police whistle.
The young man looked up from Eugenia, over whom he was bending, scarcely heeding what else went on about him. Still, there was no trace of anger on his face, in spite of the great wrong that had been done him. There was room for only one great emotion--only anxiety for the poor girl who had suffered so cruelly merely for taking his name.
Kennedy saw the unspoken question in his eyes.
”Eugenia is a pure normal, as Dr. Crafts told you,” he said gently. ”A few weeks, perhaps only days, of treatment--the thyroid will revert to its normal state--and Eugenia Gilman will be the mother of a new house of Atherton which may eclipse even the proud record of the founder of the old.”
”Who blew the whistle?” demanded a gruff voice at the door, as a tall bluecoat puffed past the scandalized butler.
”Arrest that woman,” pointed Kennedy. ”She is the poisoner. Either as wife of Burroughs, whom she fascinates and controls as she does Edith, she planned to break the will of Quincy or, in the other event, to administer the fortune as head of the Eugenics Foundation after the death of Dr. Crafts, who would have followed Eugenia and Quincy Atherton.”
I followed the direction of Kennedy's accusing finger. Maude Schofield's face betrayed more than even her tongue could have confessed.
CHAPTER x.x.xIV
THE BILLIONAIRE BABY