At Doctor Rogers’s office we found his assistant in charge. He had but a few of the doctor’s cases to look after and these were the simpler ones. Serious matters had been placed in the hands of more skilled practitioners, and some few important ones, we were told, were given over to specialists. March showed him the telegram and asked what it meant. “Well,” said Doctor Greenway, a pleasant-faced young man, “I guess I can help you out on that. My orders are to meet the wishes of any one bringing a telegram couched in that language. As you have doubtless deduced,” he smiled at the detective, “it means the key to the safe is hidden——” “Behind Lincoln’s picture,” cried Kee, before March could speak. “Yes,” smiled the young man, his eyes following ours to the large engraving of Lincoln on the wall. He stepped up on a chair, turned the frame from the wall a little, and from an envelope pasted on the back of the picture he extracted a paper. “This is the combination,” he explained, “which is what he means by key.” Following the message on the paper, he twirled the dials, and soon opened the safe. “I will leave you to your investigations,” he said. “This must be an important matter, or Doctor Rogers wouldn’t have sent that information. Those are his case books, I leave them in your charge. When you are finished with them I will return and close the safe again. I shall be in the next room.” He went out and closed the door, and we looked into the safe, wondering what secret it would divulge. So well was everything labelled and indexed that we had no trouble at all in finding the pages marked Remsen. Keeley and March did the research work, I sitting idly by, but alert to learn their findings. In a moment, I saw the utmost surprise and excitement manifest on their faces. They read from the same page, silently, eagerly, and then Keeley lifted his head, and with a look of pure joy on his face cried out: “Take heart, Gray, Alma is all right!” My heart almost stopped beating. I couldn’t speak, but my whole soul seemed to go out in a great prayer of gratitude that swallowed up all other emotion. I did not hasten them or beg for further disclosures; I knew they would come in good time. At last they gave over reading and turned to look at one another with nods of understanding. Then Keeley turned to me, and said, concisely: “Gray, the dementia praecox patient is not Alma, but her sister—her twin sister, Alda. This twin did not die as a child, but lived, afflicted with this terrible disease. The mother of the little girl was so overcome with grief and shame, that she pretended the child had died, and had the little grave made to give credence to the story.” “Alda?” I said, dully, not quite taking it in. “That isn’t a name——”