young man: “Now, mon enfant, we shall inspect you, if you please." Quickly he examined the boy’s face, scalp, throat, wrists and calves, finding no evidence of even a pinprick, let alone a wound capable of causing syncope.
“Mon Dieu, this is strange,” he muttered; “of a surety, it has the queerness of the devil! Perhaps the bleeding is internal, but—ah, regard- ez vous, Friend Trowbridge!”
He had turned down the collar of the youngster’s pajama jacket, more in idle routine than in hope of discovering anything tangible, but the livid spot to which he pointed seemed the key to our mystery’s outer door. Against the smooth, white flesh of the young man’s left breast there showed a red, angry patch, such as might have resulted from a vacuum cup being held some time against the skin, and in the center of the discoloration was a double row of tiny punctures scarcely larger than needle-pricks, arranged in horizontal divergent arcs, like a pair of parentheses laid sidewise.
“You see?” he asked simply, as though the queer, blood-infused spot explained everything.
“But he couldn’t have bled much through that,” I protested. “Why, the man seems almost drained dry, and these wounds wouldn’t have yielded more than a cubic centimeter of blood, at most.”
He nodded gravely. "Blood is not entirely colloidal, my friend,” he responded. “It will penetrate the tissues to some extent, especially if sufficient force is applied.”
“But it would have required a powerful suction——” I replied, when his rejoinder cut me short:
“Ha, you have said it, my friend. Suction—that is the word!”
“But what could have sucked a man’s blood like this?” I was in a near-stupor of mystification.
“What, indeed?” he replied gravely. “That is for us to find out. Meantime, we are here as physicians. A quarter-grain morphine injection is indicated here, I think. You will adminster the dose; I have no license in America.”
When I returned from my round of afternoon calls next day I found de Grandin seated on my front steps in close conference with Indian John.
Indian John was a town character of doubtful lineage who performed odd jobs of snow shoveling, furnace tending and grass cutting, according to season, and interspersed his manual labors with brief incursions into the mercantile field when he peddled fresh vegetables from door to door. He also peddled neighborhood gossip and retailed local lore to all who would listen, his claim to being a hundred years old giving him the standing of an indisputable authority; in all matters antedating living memory.
“Pardieu, but you have told me much, mon vieux,” de Grandin declared as I came up the porch steps. He handed the old rascal a handful of silver and rose to accompany me into the house.
“Friend Trowbridge,” he accused as we finished dinner that night, “you had not told me that this town grew up on the site of an early Swedish settlement.”
“Never knew you wanted to know,” I defended with a grin.
“You know the ancient Swedish church, perhaps,” he persisted.
“Yes, that’s old Christ Church,” I answered. “It’s down in the east end of town; don’t suppose it has a hundred communicants today. Our population has made some big changes, both in complexion and creed, since the days when the Dutch and Swedes fought for possession of New Jersey.”
