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OCTOR MAYNARD paused midway of the long hospital corridor and waved an inclusive hand toward its twin rows of iron-barred cells.

"This, Wayne," he said, "is the Psychopathic Ward. We have some unusual cases here. Take, for instance, Number Twenty-Seven. I'm sure you will be interested in Number Twenty-Seven. Step this way."

I obeyed with reluctance. I was concerned with Maynard, not his psychopathic cases. We had not seen each other since our college days, twenty years before, and I had hoped for a return of our old intimacy during these few hours together, which chance had thrown in my way.

I had knocked about the world, acquired the kaleidoscopic knowledge of life accorded the globe-trotter. Maynard had stayed at home, tinkering with the mental workings of the human machinery until his name stood for the accom-