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THE
THINKING MACHINE
Being a True and Complete Statement of Several Intricate
Mysteries which came under the Observation of
Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen,
PH.D., LL.D., F.R.S., M.D., etc.
BY
JACQUES FUTRELLE
Author of “The Chase of The Golden Plate,"
“ The Haunted Bell," etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
THE KINNEYS
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
1907


67330
PS 3511
ilg2T4
Copyright, 1905, 1906, by American-Journal-Examiner
Copyright, 1907, by Dodd, Mead & Co.
By courtesy of William Randolph Hearst
Published March, 1907
Gen. 3-11-09


.
To
those two persons who made The Thinking Machine possible
J. L. E.,
who opened the way,
and
L. M. F.,
who guided, advised and encouraged the hand that labored,
these tales are gratefully dedicated.





CONTENTS
PAGE
THE PROBLEM OP Cell 13
I
.
.
THE SCARLET THREAD
57
THE MAN WHO WAS Lost
106
THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
152
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
2 IO
THE RALSTON BANK BURGLARY .
.
258
THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
302








THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
I
PRACTICALLY all those letters remaining in the
alphabet after Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen was
named were afterward acquired by that gentleman
in the course of a brilliant scientific career, and, being
honorably acquired, were tacked on to the other end.
His name, therefore, taken with all that belonged to
it, was a wonderfully imposing structure. He was a
Ph.D., an LL.D., an F.R.S., an M.D., and an
M.D.S. He was also some other things—just what
he himself couldn't say—through recognition of his
ability by various foreign educational and scientific
institutions.
In appearance he was no less striking than in
nomenclature. He was slender with the droop of the
student in his thin shoulders and the pallor of a close,
sedentary life on his clean-shaven face. His eyes
wore a perpetual, forbidding squint—the squint of a
man who studies little things—and when they
could be seen at all through his thick spectacles,
were mere slits of watery blue. But above his
eyes was his most striking feature. This was a tall,
broad brow, almost abnormal in height and width,
I


2
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
crowned by a heavy shock of bushy, yellow hair.
All these things conspired to give him a peculiar,
almost grotesque, personality.
Professor Van Dusen was remotely German. For
generations his ancestors had been noted in the
sciences; he was the logical result, the master mind.
First and above all he was a logician. At least thirty-
five years of the half-century or so of his existence
had been devoted exclusively to proving that two
and two always equal four, except in unusual cases,
where they equal three or five, as the case may be.
He stood broadly on the general proposition that all
things that start must go somewhere, and was able
to bring the concentrated mental force of his fore-
fathers to bear on a given problem. Incidentally
it may be remarked that Professor Van Dusen wore
a No. 8 hat.
The world at large had heard vaguely of Professor
Van Dusen as The Thinking Machine. It was a news-
paper catch-phrase applied to him at the time of a
remarkable exhibition at chess; he had demonstrated
then that a stranger to the game might, by the force
of inevitable logic, defeat a champion who had
devoted a lifetime to its study. The Thinking
Machine! Perhaps that more nearly described him
than all his honorary initials, for he spent week after
week, month after month, in the seclusion of his small
laboratory from which had gone forth thoughts that
staggered scientific associates and deeply stirred the
world at large.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
3
It was only occasionally that The Thinking Ma-
chine had visitors, and these were usually men who,
themselves high in the sciences, dropped in to argue
a point and perhaps convince themselves. Two of
these men, Dr. Charles Ransome and Alfred Field-
ing, called one evening to discuss some theory which
is not of consequence here.
“Such a thing is impossible," declared Dr. Ran-
some emphatically, in the course of the conversa-
tion.
“Nothing is impossible,” declared The Thinking
Machine with equal emphasis. He always spoke
petulantly. “The mind is master of all things.
When science fully recognizes that fact a great
advance will have been made."
How about the airship ? " asked Dr. Ransome.
“That's not impossible at all," asserted The
Thinking Machine. “ It will be invented some time.
I'd do it myself, but I'm busy."
Dr. Ransome laughed tolerantly.
"I've heard you say such things before,” he said.
"But they mean nothing. Mind may be master of
matter, but it hasn't yet found a way to apply itself.
There are some things that can't be thought out of
existence, or rather which would not yield to any
amount of thinking."
What, for instance ? ” demanded The Thinking
Machine.
Dr. Ransome was thoughtful for a moment as he
smoked.


4
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
“Well, say prison walls,” he replied. “No man
can think himself out of a cell. If he could, there
would be no prisoners."
“A man can so apply his brain and ingenuity that
he can leave a cell, which is the same thing,” snapped
The Thinking Machine.
Dr. Ransome was slightly amused.
“Let's suppose a case," he said, after a moment.
“Take a cell where prisoners under sentence of death
are confined-men who are desperate and, maddened
by fear, would take any chance to escape-suppose
you were locked in such a cell. Could you escape?
Certainly,” ” declared The Thinking Machine.
“Of course," said Mr. Fielding, who entered the
conversation for the first time," you might wreck the
cell with an explosive but inside, a prisoner, you
couldn't have that."
“There would be nothing of that kind," said The
Thinking Machine. “You might treat me precisely
as you treated prisoners under sentence of death, and
I would leave the cell."
“Not unless you entered it with tools prepared to
get out,” said Dr. Ransome.
The Thinking Machine was visibly annoyed and
his blue eyes snapped.
“Lock me in any cell in any prison anywhere at
any time, wearing only what is necessary, and I'll
escape in a week,” he declared, sharply.
Dr. Ransome sat up straight in the chair, inter-
ested. Mr. Fielding lighted a new cigar.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
9
And what is the third request ? ” asked Dr.
Ransome.
“ I should like to have
my
shoes polished.”
Again the astonished glances were exchanged.
This last request was the height of absurdity, so
they agreed to it. These things all being attended
to, The Thinking Machine was led back into the
prison from which he had undertaken to escape.
“Here is Cell 13,” said the warden, stopping
three doors down the steel corridor. “This is where
we keep condemned murderers. No one can leave it
without my permission; and no one in it can com-
municate with the outside. I'll stake my reputation
on that. It's only three doors back of my office and
I can readily hear any unusual noise.”
“Will this cell do, gentlemen ?” asked The Think-
ing Machine. There was a touch of irony in his
voice.
“Admirably," was the reply.
The heavy steel door was thrown open, there was
a great scurrying and scampering of tiny feet, and
The Thinking Machine passed into the gloom of the
Then the door was closed and double locked
by the warden.
“ What is that noise in there?” asked Dr. Ran-
some, through the bars.
Ratsdozens of them,” replied The Thinking
Machine, tersely.
The three men, with final good-nights, were turn-
ing away when The Thinking Machine called;
cell.


10
OF CELL 13
THE PROBLEM
“What time is it exactly, warden ? "
“ Eleven seventeen,” replied the warden.
“Thanks. I will join you gentlemen in your office
at half-past eight o'clock one week from to-night,"
said The Thinking Machine.
“And if you do not ? ”
“There is no 'if' about it."
II
CHISHOLM Prison was a great, spreading structure
of granite, four stories in all, which stood in the cen-
ter of acres of open space. It was surrounded by a
wall of solid masonry eighteen feet high, and so
smoothly finished inside and out as to offer no foot-
hold to a climber, no matter how expert. Atop of
this fence, as a further precaution, was a five-foot
fence of steel rods, each terminating in a keen point.
This fence in itself marked an absolute deadline
between freedom and imprisonment, for, even if a
man escaped from his cell, it would seem impossible
for him to pass the wall.
The yard, which on all sides of the prison building
was twenty-five feet wide, that being the distance
from the building to the wall, was by day an exercise
ground for those prisoners to whom was granted the
boon of occasional semi-liberty. But that was not
for those in Cell 13. At all times of the day there
were armed guards in the yard, four of them, one
patrolling each side of the prison building.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
II
By night the yard was almost as brilliantly lighted
as by day. On each of the four sides was a great arc
light which rose above the prison wall and gave to
the guards a clear sight. The lights, too, brightly
illuminated the spiked top of the wall. The wires
which fed the arc lights ran up the side of the prison
building on insulators and from the top story led out
to the poles supporting the arc lights.
All these things were seen and comprehended by
The Thinking Machine, who was only enabled to
see out his closely barred cell window by standing on
his bed. This was on the morning following his
incarceration. He gathered, too, that the river lay
over there beyond the wall somewhere, because he
heard faintly the pulsation of a motor boat and high
up
in the air saw a river bird. From that same direc-
tion came the shouts of boys at play and the occa-
sional crack of a batted ball. He knew then that
between the prison wall and the river was an open
space, a playground.
Chisholm Prison was regarded as absolutely safe.
No man had ever escaped from it. The Thinking
Machine, from his perch on the bed, seeing what he
saw, could readily understand why. The walls of
the cell, though built he judged twenty years before,
were perfectly solid, and the window bars of new
iron had not a shadow of rust on them. The window
itself, even with the bars out, would be a difficult
mode of egress because it was small.
Yet, seeing these things, The Thinking Machine


12
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
was not discouraged. Instead, he thoughtfully
squinted at the great arc light—there was bright
sunlight now—and traced with his eyes the wire
which led from it to the building. That electric wire,
he reasoned, must come down the side of the build-
ing not a great distance from his cell. That might
be worth knowing.
Cell 13 was on the same floor with the offices of
the prison—that is, not in the basement, nor yet
upstairs. There were only four steps up to the office
floor, therefore the level of the floor must be only
three or four feet above the ground. He couldn't
see the ground directly beneath his window, but he
could see it further out toward the wall. It would
be an easy drop from the window. Well and good.
Then The Thinking Machine fell to remembering
how he had come to the cell. First, there was the
outside guard's booth, a part of the wall. There
were two heavily barred gates there, both of steel.
At this gate was one man always on guard. He
admitted persons to the prison after much clanking
of keys and locks, and let them out when ordered to
do so. The warden's office was in the prison build-
ing, and in order to reach that official from the prison
yard one had to pass a gate of solid steel with only a
peep-hole in it. Then coming from that inner office
to Cell 13, where he was now, one must pass a heavy
wooden door and two steel doors into the corridors
of the prison; and always there was the double-locked
door of Cell 13 to reckon with.


14
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
in thought for a long time. For Professor Augustus
S. F. X. Van Dusen, The Thinking Machine, had
something to think about.
He was disturbed by a rat, which ran across his
foot, then scampered away into a dark corner of the
cell, frightened at its own daring. After awhile The
Thinking Machine, squinting steadily into the dark-
ness of the corner where the rat had gone, was able
to make out in the gloom many little beady eyes
staring at him. He counted six pair, and there were
perhaps others; he didn't see very well.
Then The Thinking Machine, from his seat on the
bed, noticed for the first time the bottom of his cell
door. There was an opening there of two inches
between the steel bar and the floor. Still looking
steadily at this opening, The Thinking Machine
backed suddenly into the corner where he had seen
the beady eyes. There was a great scampering of
tiny feet, several squeaks of frightened rodents, and
then silence.
None of the rats had gone out the door, yet there
were none in the cell. Therefore there must be
another way out of the cell, however small. The
Thinking Machine, on hands and knees, started a
search for this spot, feeling in the darkness with his
long, slender fingers.
At last his search was rewarded. He came upon
a small opening in the floor, level with the cement.
It was perfectly round and somewhat larger than
a silver dollar. This was the way the rats had


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
15
gone. He put his fingers deep into the opening; it
seemed to be a disused drainage pipe and was dry and
dusty.
Having satisfied himself on this point, he sat
on the bed again for an hour, then made an-
other inspection of his surroundings through the
small cell window. One of the outside guards
stood directly opposite, beside the wall, and hap-
pened to be looking at the window of Cell 13 when
the head of The Thinking Machine appeared. But
the scientist didn't notice the guard.
Noon came and the jailer appeared with the prison
dinner of repulsively plain food. At home The
Thinking Machine merely ate to live; here he took
what was offered without comment. Occasionally
he spoke to the jailer who stood outside the door
watching him.
Any improvements made here in the last few
years?” he asked.
“Nothing particularly,” replied the jailer.
wall was built four years ago.”
Anything done to the prison proper?”
“Painted the woodwork outside, and I believe
about seven years ago a new system of plumbing was
" New
put in.'
Ah!" said the prisoner. “How far is the river
over there?"
“ About three hundred feet. The boys have a
baseball ground between the wall and the river."
The Thinking Machine had nothing further to


16
OF CELL 13
THE PROBLEM
say just then, but when the jailer was ready to go
he asked for some water.
"I get very thirsty here,” he explained. Would
it be possible for you to leave a little water in a bowl
for me?”
“ I'll ask the warden," replied the jailer, and he
went away.
Half an hour later he returned with water in a
small earthen bowl.
The warden says you may keep this bowl,” he
informed the prisoner. “But you must show it to
me when I ask for it. If it is broken, it will be the
last."
“Thank you," said The Thinking Machine. “I
shan't break it."
The jailer went on about his duties. For just the
fraction of a second it seemed that The Thinking
Machine wanted to ask a question, but he didn't.
Two hours later this same jailer, in passing the
door of Cell No. 13, heard a noise inside and stopped.
The Thinking Machine was down on his hands and
knees in a corner of the cell, and from that same
corner came several frightened squeaks. The jailer
looked on interestedly.
“Ah, I've got you,” he heard the prisoner say.
“Got what?” he asked, sharply.
“One of these rats," was the reply.
" See?”
And between the scientist's long fingers the jailer
saw a small gray rat struggling. The prisoner
brought it over to the light and looked at it closely.
“It's a water rat," he said.


THE PROBLEM OF
17
CELL 13
“Ain't you got anything better to do than to catch
rats?” asked the jailer.
“ It's disgraceful that they should be here at all,”
was the irritated reply.
“ Take this one away
and
kill it. There are dozens more where it came
from."
The jailer took the wriggling, squirmy rodent and
flung it down on the floor violently. It gave one
squeak and lay still. Later he reported the incident
to the warden, who only smiled.
Still later that afternoon the outside armed guard
on Cell 13 side of the prison looked up again at the
window and saw the prisoner looking out. He saw
a hand raised to the barred window and then some-
thing white fluttered to the ground, directly under
the window of Cell 13. It was a little roll of linen,
evidently of white shirting material, and tied around
it was a five-dollar bill. The guard looked up at the
window again, but the face had disappeared.
With a grim smile he took the little linen roll and
the five-dollar bill to the warden's office. There
together they deciphered something which was writ-
ten on it with a queer sort of ink, frequently blurred.
On the outside was this:
“ Finder of this please deliver to Dr. Charles
Ransome.”
“Ah," said the warden, with a chuckle. “Plan
of escape number one has gone wrong." Then, as
an afterthought: “But why did he address it to Dr.
Ransome?”


18
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
And where did he get the pen and ink to write
with?" asked the guard.
The warden looked at the guard and the guard
looked at the warden. There was no apparent solu-
tion of that mystery. The warden studied the writ-
ing carefully, then shook his head.
“Well, let's see what he was going to say to Dr.
Ransome," he said at length, still-puzzled, and he
unrolled the inner piece of linen.
“Well, if that-what-what do you think of
that?” he asked, dazed.
The guard took the bit of linen and read this:
Epa cseot d'net niiy awe htto n’si sih.
“T."
III
The warden spent an hour wondering what sort of a
cipher it was, and half an hour wondering why his
prisoner should attempt to communicate with Dr.
Ransome, who was the cause of him being there.
After this the warden devoted some thought to the
question of where the prisoner got writing materials,
and what sort of writing materials he had. With the
idea of illuminating this point, he examined the linen
again. It was a torn part of a white shirt and had
ragged edges.
Now it was possible to account for the linen, but
what the prisoner had used to write with was another
matter. The warden knew it would have been im-


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
19
possible for him to have either pen or pencil, and,
besides, neither pen nor pencil had been used in this
writing. What, then? The warden decided to per-
sonally investigate. The Thinking Machine was his
prisoner; he had orders to hold his prisoners; if this
one sought to escape by sending cipher messages to
persons outside, he would stop it, as he would have
stopped it in the case of any other prisoner.
The warden went back to Cell 13 and found The
Thinking Machine on his hands and knees on the
floor, engaged in nothing more alarming than catch-
ing rats. The prisoner heard the warden's step and
turned to him quickly.
“ It's disgraceful,” he snapped,“ these rats. There
are scores of them."
“Other men have been able to stand them," said
the warden. “Here is another shirt for you—let
me have the one you have on."
Why?” demanded The Thinking Machine,
quickly. His tone was hardly natural, his manner
suggested actual perturbation.
“ You have attempted to communicate with Dr.
Ransome,” said the warden severely. “As my pris-
oner, it is my duty to put a stop to it.”
The Thinking Machine was silent for a moment.
"All right,” he said, finally. “Do your duty."
The warden smiled grimly. The prisoner arose
from the floor and removed the white shirt, putting
on instead a striped convict shirt the warden had
brought. The warden took the white shirt eagerly,


20
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
and then and there compared the pieces of linen on
which was written the cipher with certain torn
places in the shirt. The Thinking Machine looked
on curiously.
The guard brought you those, then ?” he asked.
“He certainly did," replied the warden trium-
phantly. “And that ends your first attempt to
escape.
The Thinking Machine watched the warden as
he, by comparison, established to his own satisfac-
tion that only two pieces of linen had been torn from
the white shirt.
“What did you write this with ?" demanded the
warden.
“ I should think it a part of your duty to find out,”
said The Thinking Machine, irritably.
The warden started to say some harsh things, then
restrained himself and made a minute search of the
cell and of the prisoner instead. He found absolutely
nothing; not even a match or toothpick which might
have been used for a pen. The same mystery sur-
rounded the fluid with which the cipher had been
written. Although the warden left Cell 13 visibly
annoyed, he took the torn shirt in triumph.
“Well, writing notes on a shirt won't get him
out, that's certain," he told himself with some com-
placency. He put the linen scraps into his desk to
await developments.
“ If that man escapes from
that cell I'll—hang it—I'll resign."
On the third day of his incarceration The Think-


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
21
ing Machine openly attempted to bribe his way out.
The jailer had brought his dinner and was leaning
against the barred door, waiting, when The Think-
ing Machine began the conversation.
“The drainage pipes of the prison lead to the
river, don't they ?” he asked.
“Yes," said the jailer.
“I suppose they are very small?”
“Too small to crawl through, if that's what you're
thinking about,” was the grinning response.
There was silence until The Thinking Machine
finished his meal. Then:
“ You know I'm not a criminal, don't you ? "
“Yes."
And that I've a perfect right to be freed if I
demand it?"
“ Yes."
“Well, I came here believing that I could make
my escape,” said the prisoner, and his squint eyes
studied the face of the jailer. Would you consider
a financial reward for aiding me to escape?'
The jailer, who happened to be an honest man,
looked at the slender, weak figure of the prisoner, at
the large head with its mass of yellow hair, and was
almost sorry.
“I guess prisons like these were not built for the
likes of you to get out of,” he said, at last.
But would you consider a proposition to help
me get out?” the prisoner insisted, almost be-
seechingly.


22
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
"No," said the jailer, shortly.
Five hundred dollars,” , urged The Thinking
Machine. “I am not a criminal."
'No," said the jailer.
“A thousand?"
“No," again said the jailer, and he started away
hurriedly to escape further temptation. Then he
turned back. “If you should give me ten thousand
dollars I couldn't get you out. You'd have to pass
through seven doors, and I only have the keys to
two."
Then he told the warden all about it.
“Plan number two fails," said the warden, smiling
grimly. “First a cipher, then bribery.”
When the jailer was on his way to Cell 13 at six
o'clock, again bearing food to The Thinking Ma-
chine, he paused, startled by the unmistakable scrape,
scrape of steel against steel. It stopped at the sound
of his steps, then craftily the jailer, who was beyond
the prisoner's range of vision, resumed his tramping,
the sound being apparently that of a man going away
from Cell 13. As a matter of fact he was in the
same spot.
After a moment there came again the steady
scrape, scrape, and the jailer crept cautiously on tip-
toes to the door and peered between the bars. The
Thinking Machine was standing on the iron bed
working at the bars of the little window. He was
using a file, judging from the backward and forward
swing of his arms.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
23
Cautiously the jailer crept back to the office, sum-
moned the warden in person, and they returned to
Cell 13 on tiptoes. The steady scrape was still
audible. The warden listened to satisfy himself and
then suddenly appeared at the door.
“Well?” he demanded, and there was a smile on
his face.
The Thinking Machine glanced back from his
perch on the bed and leaped suddenly to the floor,
making frantic efforts to hide something. The war-
den went in, with hand extended.
“Give it up,” he said.
No," said the prisoner, sharply.
“Come, give it up," urged the warden. “I don't
want to have to search
you again.”
“No," repeated the prisoner.
“What was it, a file?" asked the warden.
The Thinking Machine was silent and stood
squinting at the warden with something very nearly
approaching disappointment on his face—nearly, but
not quite. The warden was almost sympathetic.
“ Plan number three fails, eh?” he asked, good-
naturedly. “ 'Too bad, isn't it?"
The prisoner didn't say.
“ Search him," instructed the warden.
The jailer searched the prisoner carefully. At
last, artfully concealed in the waist band of the trou-
sers, he found a piece of steel about two inches long,
with one side curved like a half moon.
Ah," said the warden, as he received it from the


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
25
“Give it up, professor,” he advised.
The Thinking Machine shook his head and the
warden and jailer passed on again. As they disap-
peared down the corridor The Thinking Machine
sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
“He's crazy to try to get out of that cell," com-
mented the jailer.
“Of course he can't get out,” said the warden.
“But he's clever. I would like to know what he
wrote that cipher with."
.
It was four o'clock next morning when an awful,
heart-racking shriek of terror resounded through the
great prison. It came from a cell, somewhere about
the center, and its tone told a tale of horror, agony,
terrible fear. The warden heard and with three of
his men rushed into the long corridor leading to
Cell 13.
IV
As they ran there came again that awful cry. It
died away in a sort of wail. The white faces of
prisoners appeared at cell doors upstairs and down,
staring out wonderingly, frightened.
“It's that fool in Cell 13," grumbled the warden.
He stopped and stared in as one of the jailers
flashed a lantern. “That fool in Cell 13" lay com-
fortably on his cot, flat on his back with his mouth
open, snoring. Even as they looked there came


26
OF CELL 13
THE PROBLEM
again the piercing cry, from somewhere above. The
warden's face blanched a little as he started up the
stairs. There on the top floor he found a man in
Cell 43, directly above Cell 13, but two floors higher,
cowering in a corner of his cell.
“What's the matter?” demanded the warden.
“ Thank God you've come,” exclaimed the pris-
oner, and he cast himself against the bars of his cell.
What is it?" demanded the warden again.
He threw open the door and went in. The pris-
oner dropped on his knees and clasped the warden
about the body. His face was white with terror, his
eyes were widely distended, and he was shuddering.
His hands, icy cold, clutched at the warden's.
“Take me out of this cell, please take me out,”
he pleaded.
“What's the matter with you, anyhow?” insisted
the warden, impatiently.
“I heard something something," said the pris-
oner, and his eyes roved nervously around the cell.
“ What did
you
hear?”
“1-I can't tell you,” stammered the prisoner.
Then, in a sudden burst of terror: " Take me out
of this cell—put me anywhere—but take me out of
here."
The warden and the three jailers exchanged
glances.
“Who is this fellow? What's he accused of? "
asked the warden.
“ Joseph Ballard,” said one of the jailers. "He's


28
PROBLEM OF CELL 13
THE
For an hour the warden tried to get the story, but
Ballard had become suddenly obstinate and would
say nothing-only pleaded to be placed in another
cell, or to have one of the jailers remain near him
until daylight. These requests were gruffly refused.
And see here," said the warden, in conclusion,
“if there's any more of this screaming I'll put you
in the padded cell."
Then the warden went his way, a sadly puzzled
man. Ballard sat at his cell door until daylight, his
face, drawn and white with terror, pressed against
the bars, and looked out into the prison with wide,
staring eyes.
That day, the fourth since the incarceration of
The Thinking Machine, was enlivened considerably
by the volunteer prisoner, who spent most of his time
at the little window of his cell. He began proceed-
ings by throwing another piece of linen down to the
guard, who picked it up dutifully and took it to the
warden. On it was written:
“Only three days more.”
The warden was in no way surprised at what he
read; he understood that The Thinking Machine
meant only three days more of his imprisonment, and
he regarded the note as a boast. But how was the
thing written? Where had The Thinking Machine
found this new piece of linen? Where? How? He
carefully examined the linen. It was white, of fine
texture, shirting material. He took the shirt which
he had taken and carefully fitted the two original


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
29
pieces of the linen to the torn places. This third
piece was entirely superfluous; it didn't fit anywhere,
and yet it was unmistakably the same goods.
“And where—where does he get anything to
write with?” demanded the warden of the world at
large.
Still later on the fourth day The Thinking Ma-
chine, through the window of his cell, spoke to the
armed guard outside.
What day of the month is it?” he asked.
“ The fifteenth," was the answer.
The Thinking Machine made a mental astronom-
ical calculation and satisfied himself that the moon
would not rise until after nine o'clock that night.
Then he asked another question:
“Who attends to those arc lights ?”
“ Man from the company.'
“ You have no electricians in the building ?”
"No."
“I should think
you
could save money
if
you
had
your own man."
“None of my business,” replied the guard.
The guard noticed The Thinking Machine at the
cell window frequently during that day, but always
the face seemed listless and there was a certain wist-
fulness in the squint eyes behind the glasses. After
a while he accepted the presence of the leonine head
as a matter of course. He had seen other prisoners
do the same thing; it was the longing for the outside
world.


30
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
That afternoon, just before the day guard was re-
lieved, the head appeared at the window again, and
The Thinking Machine's hand held something out
between the bars. It fluttered to the ground and the
guard picked it up. It was a five-dollar bill.
“That's for you,” called the prisoner.
As usual, the guard took it to the warden. That
gentleman looked at it suspiciously; he looked at
everything that came from Cell 13 with suspicion.
“He said it was for me,” explained the guard.
“It's a sort of a tip, I suppose," said the warden.
“I see no particular reason why you shouldn't
accept-
Suddenly he stopped. He had remembered that
The Thinking Machine had gone into Cell 13 with
one five-dollar bill and two ten-dollar bills; twenty-
rive dollars in all. Now a five-dollar bill had been
tied around the first pieces of linen that came from
the cell. The warden still had it, and to convince
himself he took it out and looked at it. It was five
dollars; yet here was another five dollars, and The
Thinking Machine had only had ten-dollar bills.
Perhaps somebody changed one of the bills for
him," he thought at last, with a sigh of relief.
But then and there he made up his mind. He
would search Cell 13 as a cell was never before
searched in this world. When a man could write at
will, and change money, and do other wholly inex-
plicable things, there was something radically wrong
with his prison. He planned to enter the cell at night


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
31
oner.
-three o'clock would be an excellent time. The
Thinking Machine must do all the weird things he
did sometime. Night seemed the most reasonable.
Thus it happened that the warden stealthily de-
scended upon Cell 13 that night at three o'clock.
He paused at the door and listened. There was no
sound save the steady, regular breathing of the pris-
The keys unfastened the double locks with
scarcely a clank, and the warden entered, locking the
door behind him. Suddenly he flashed his dark-lan-
tern in the face of the recumbent figure.
If the warden had planned to startle The Think-
ing Machine he was mistaken, for that individual
merely opened his eyes quietly, reached for his glasses
and inquired, in a most matter-of-fact tone:
“ Who is it?"
It would be useless to describe the search that the
warden made. It was minute. Not one inch of the
cell or the bed was overlooked. He found the round
hole in the floor, and with a flash of inspiration
thrust his thick fingers into it. After a moment of
fumbling there he drew up something and looked at
it in the light of his lantern.
“Ugh!” he exclaimed.
The thing he had taken out was a rat-a dead rat.
His inspiration filed as a mist before the sun. But
he continued the search. The Thinking Machine,
without a word, arose and kicked the rat out of the
cell into the corridor.
The warden climbed on the bed and tried the steel


32
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
anc
bars in the tiny window. They were perfectly ris regid;
every bar of the door was the same.
Then the warden searched the prisoner's clothing,
beginning at the shoes. Nothing hidden in them!
Then the trousers waist band. Still nothing! Then
the pockets of the trousers. From one side he drew
out some paper money and examined it.
Five one-dollar bills," he gasped.
“That's right," said the prisoner.
“But the--you had two tens and a five—what the
-how do you do it ? ”
That's my business,” said The Thinking
Machine.
“ Did
any of
my men change this
money
for
you
-on your word of honor?"
The Thinking Machine paused just a fraction of a
second.
' No," he said.
“Well, do you make it?" asked the warden. He
was prepared to believe anything.
“That's my business," again said the prisoner.
The warden glared at the eminent scientist fiercely.
He felt—he knew—that this man was making a fool
of him, yet he didn't know how. If he were a real
prisoner he would get the truth—but, then, perhaps,
those inexplicable things which had happened would
not have been brought before him so sharply.
Neither of the men spoke for a long time, then sud-
denly the warden turned fiercely and left the cell,
slamming the door behind him. He didn't dare to
speak, then.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
33
He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to
four. He had hardly settled himself in bed when
again came that heart-breaking shriek through the
prison. With a few muttered words, which, while
not elegant, were highly expressive, he relighted his
lantern and rushed through the prison again to the
cell on the upper floor.
Again Ballard was crushing himself against the
steel door, shrieking, shrieking at the top of his
voice. He stopped only when the warden flashed his
lamp in the cell.
“Take me out, take me out," he screamed. “I
did it, I did it, I killed her. Take it away.”
“ Take what away?” asked the warden.
"I threw the acid in her face-I did it-I con-
fess. Take me out of here."
Ballard's condition was pitiable; it was only an
act of mercy to let him out into the corridor. There
he crouched in a corner, like an animal at bay, and
clasped his hands to his ears. It took half an hour
to calm him sufficiently for him to speak. Then he
told incoherently what had happened. On the night
before at four o'clock he had heard a voice-a sepul-
chral voice, muffled and wailing in tone.
“What did it say? " asked the warden, curiously.
“ Acid-acid-acid !” gasped the prisoner. “It
accused me. Acid! I threw the acid, and the woman
died. Oh!" It was a long, shuddering wail of
terror.
“ Acid ? " echoed the warden, puzzled. The case
was beyond him.


34
OF CELL 13
THE PROBLEM
“ Acid. That's all I heard that one word, re-
peated several times. There were other things, too,
but I didn't hear them.”
That was last night, eh?” asked the warden.
“What happened to-night—what frightened you
just now?"
It was the same thing,” gasped the prisoner.
Acid-acid-acid !! He covered his face with
his hands and sat shivering. “It was acid I used
on her, but I didn't mean to kill her. I just heard
the words. It was something accusing me-accusing
me.” He mumbled, and was silent.
Did you hear anything else ? "
-“Yes—but I couldn't understand—only a little
bit-just a word or two."
Well, what was it?"
“ I heard ' acid' three times, then I heard a long,
moaning sound, then—then I heard No. 8 hat.'
I heard that twice."
“No. 8 hat," repeated the warden. “What the
devil-No. 8 hat? Accusing voices of conscience
have never talked about No. 8 hats, so far as I ever
heard."
He's insane," said one of the jailers, with an air
of finality.
“I believe you," said the warden. " He must be.
He probably heard something and got frightened.
He's trembling now. No. 8 hat! What the-


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
35
V
When the fifth day of The Thinking Machine's im-
prisonment rolled around the warden was wearing a
hunted look. He was anxious for the end of the
thing. He could not help but feel that his distin-
guished prisoner had been amusing himself. And if
this were so, The Thinking Machine had lost none of
his sense of humor. For on this fifth day he flung
down another linen note to the outside guard, bearing
the words: “Only two days more.” Also he Aung
down half a dollar.
Now the warden knew-he knew that the man
in Cell 13 didn't have any half dollars—he couldn't
have any half dollars, no more than he could have
pen and ink and linen, and yet he did have them. It
was a condition, not a theory; that is one reason
why the warden was wearing a hunted look.
That ghastly, uncanny thing, too, about.“ Acid”
and “No. 8 hat” clung to him tenaciously. They
didn't mean anything, of course, merely the ravings
of an insane murderer who had been driven by fear
to confess his crime, still there were so many things
that “ didn't mean anything” happening in the
prison now since The Thinking Machine was there.
On the sixth day the warden received a postal stat-
ing that Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding would be at
Chisholm Prison on the following evening, Thurs-


36
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
day, and in the event Professor Van Dusen had not
yet escaped—and they presumed he had not because
they had not heard from him—they would meet him
there.
“In the event he had not yet escaped!” The
warden smiled grimly. Escaped!
The Thinking Machine enlivened this day for the
warden with three notes. They were on the usual
linen and bore generally on the appointment at half-
past eight o'clock Thursday night, which appoint-
ment the scientist had made at the time of his
imprisonment.
On the afternoon of the seventh day the warden
passed Cell 13 and glanced in. The Thinking
Machine was lying on the iron bed, apparently sleep-
ing lightly. The cell appeared precisely as it always
did from a casual glance. The warden would swear
that no man was going to leave it between that
hour-it was then four o'clock—and half-past eight
o'clock that evening.
On his way back past the cell the warden heard the
steady breathing again, and coming close to the door
looked in. He wouldn't have done so if The Think-
ing Machine had been looking, but now—well, it
was different.
A ray of light came through the high window and
fell on the face of the sleeping man. It occurred to
the warden for the first time that his prisoner
appeared haggard and weary. Just then The Think-
ing Machine stirred slightly and the warden hurried


38
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
' By George!” he exclaimed.
“What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.
Silently the doctor offered the letter. Mr. Field-
ing examined it closely.
“Coincidence," he said. “It must be."
It was nearly eight o'clock when the warden re-
turned to his office. The electricians had arrived in
a wagon, and were now at work. The warden
pressed the buzz-button communicating with the man
at the outer gate in the wall.
How many electricians came in?” he asked,
over the short 'phone. “ Four? Three workmen
in jumpers and overalls and the manager? Frock
coat and silk hat? All right. Be certain that only
four
go out. That's all.”
He turned to Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding.
“We have to be careful here—particularly," and
there was broad sarcasm in his tone,“ since we have
scientists locked up.
The warden picked up the special delivery letter
carelessly, and then began to open it.
When I read this I want to tell you gentlemen
something about how — Great Cæsar!” he
ended, suddenly, as he glanced at the letter. He sat
with mouth open, motionless, from astonishment.
“What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.
"A special delivery letter from Cell 13,” gasped
the warden. “An invitation to supper."
“What?" and the two others arose, unanimously.
The warden sat dazed, staring at the letter for a


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
39
moment, then called sharply to a guard outside in
the corridor.
“Run down to Cell 13 and see if that man's in
there."
The guard went as directed, while Dr. Ransome
and Mr. Fielding examined the letter.
“It's Van Dusen's handwriting; there's no ques-
tion of that,” said Dr. Ransome. I've seen too
much of it."
Just then the buzz on the telephone from the outer
gate sounded, and the warden, in a semi-trance,
picked up the receiver.
“Hello! Two reporters, eh? Let 'em come in."
He turned suddenly to the doctor and Mr. Fielding.
Why, the man can't be out. He must be in his
cell.”
Just at that moment the guard returned.
He's still in his cell, sir," he reported. “I saw
him. He's lying down.”
There, I told you so," said the warden, and he
breathed freely again. “But how did he mail that
letter?"
There was a rap on the steel door which led from
the jail yard into the warden's office.
“ It's the reporters," said the warden. “Let them
in,” he instructed the guard; then to the two other
gentlemen : “Don't say anything about this before
them, because I'd never hear the last of it."
The door opened, and the two men from the front
gate entered.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
41
He kicked at the steel bars in the bottom of the
cell door and three of them were pushed out of place.
A fourth broke off and rolled away in the corridor.
“And here, too,” directed the erstwhile prisoner
as he stood on the bed to reach the small window.
He swept his hand across the opening and every bar
came out.
“What's this in the bed?" demanded the warden,
who was slowly recovering.
“A wig," was the reply. “Turn down the cover.”
The warden did so. Beneath it lay a large coil of
strong rope, thirty feet or more, a dagger, three files,
ten feet of electric wire, a thin, powerful pair of
steel pliers, a small tack hammer with its handle, and
-and a Derringer pistol.
“How did you do it?" demanded the warden.
“You gentlemen have an engagement to supper
with me at half-past nine o'clock," said The Think-
ing Machine. “Come on, or we shall be late."
“But how did you do it?” insisted the warden.
“Don't ever think you can hold any man who can
use his brain," said The Thinking Machine. “Come
on; we shall be late."
.
VI
It was an impatient supper party in the rooms of
Professor Van Dusen and a somewhat silent one.
The guests were Dr. Ransome, Albert Fielding, the
warden, and Hutchinson Hatch, reporter. The


42
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
meal was served to the minute, in accordance with
Professor Van Dusen's instructions of one week be-
fore; Dr. Ransome found the artichokes delicious.
At last the supper was finished and The Thinking
Machine turned full on Dr. Ransome and squinted
at him fiercely.
“Do you believe it now?" he demanded.
“I do," replied Dr. Ransome.
“Do you admit that it was a fair test ? "
“I do."
With the others, particularly the warden, he was
waiting anxiously for the explanation.
Suppose you
tell us how-
began Mr.
Fielding.
“Yes, tell us how," said the warden.
The Thinking Machine readjusted his glasses,
took a couple of preparatory squints at his audience,
and began the story. He told it from the beginning
logically; and no man ever talked to more interested
listeners.
"My agreement was,” he began, “to go into a
cell, carrying nothing except what was necessary to
wear, and to leave that cell within a week. I had
never seen Chisholm Prison. When I went into the
cell I asked for tooth powder, two ten and one five-
dollar bills, and also to have my shoes blacked. . Even
if these requests had been refused it would not have
mattered seriously. But you agreed to them.
“I knew there would be nothing in the cell which
you thought I might use to advantage. So when the


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
43
warden locked the door on me I was apparently help-
less, unless I could turn three seemingly innocent
things to use. They were things which would have
been permitted any prisoner under sentence of death,
were they not, warden ? "
“ Tooth powder and polished shoes, yes, but not
money," replied the warden.
Anything is dangerous in the hands of a man
who knows how to use it," went on The Thinking
Machine. “I did nothing that first night but sleep
and chase rats." He glared at the warden. “When
the matter was broached I knew I could do nothing
that night, so suggested next day. You gentlemen
thought I wanted time to arrange an escape with
outside assistance, but this was not true. I knew
I could communicate with whom I pleased, when
I pleased.”
The warden stared at him a moment, then went
on smoking solemnly.
“I was aroused next morning at six o'clock by the
jailer with my breakfast,” continued the scientist.
“He told me dinner was at twelve and supper at six,
Between these times, I gathered, I would be pretty
much to myself. So immediately after breakfast I
examined
my outside surroundings from my
cell win-
dow. One look told me it would be useless to try to
scale the wall, even should I decide to leave
my
cell
by the window, for my purpose was to leave not only
the cell, but the prison. Of course, I could have gone
over the wall, but it would have taken me longer to


44
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
lay my plans that way. Therefore, for the moment,
I dismissed all idea of that.
" From this first observation I knew the river was
on that side of the prison, and that there was also a
playground there. Subsequently these surmises were
verified by a keeper. I knew then one important
thing—that anyone might approach the prison wall
from that side if necessary without attracting any
particular attention. That was well to remember.
I remembered it.
“ But the outside thing which most attracted my
attention was the feed wire to the arc light which ran
within a few feet-probably three or four-of my
cell window. I knew that would be valuable in the
event I found it necessary to cut off that arc light.
Oh, you shut it off to-night, then ? " asked the
warden.
“Having learned all I could from that window,”
resumed The Thinking Machine, without heeding
the interruption, “I considered the idea of escaping
through the prison proper. I recalled just how I
had come into the cell, which I knew would be the
only way. Seven doors lay between me and the out-
side. So, also for the time being, I gave up the idea
of escaping that way. And I couldn't go through
the solid granite walls of the cell.”
The Thinking Machine paused for a moment and
Dr. Ransome lighted a new cigar. For several min-
utes there was silence, then the scientific jail-breaker
went on :


THE PROBLEM
45
OF CELL 13
“While I was thinking about these things a rat
ran across my foot. It suggested a new line of
thought. There were at least half a dozen rats in
the cell—I could see their beady eyes. Yet I had
noticed none come under the cell door. I frightened
them purposely and watched the cell door to see if
they went out that way. They did not, but they were
gone. Obviously they went another way. Another
way meant another opening.
"I searched for this opening and found it. It
was an old drain pipe, long unused and partly choked
with dirt and dust. But this was the way the rats
had come. They came from somewhere. Where?
Drain pipes usually lead outside prison grounds.
This one probably led to the river, or near it. The
rats must therefore come from that direction. If
they came a part of the way, I reasoned that they
came all the way, because it was extremely unlikely
that a solid iron or lead pipe would have any hole in
it except at the exit.
“When the jailer came with my luncheon he told
me two important things, although he didn't know it.
One was that a new system of plumbing had been
put in the prison seven years before; another that
the river was only three hundred feet away. Then
I knew positively that the pipe was a part of an old
system; I knew, too, that it slanted generally toward
the river. But did the pipe end in the water or on
land?
“This was the next question to be decided. I


46
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
decided it by catching several of the rats in the cell.
My jailer was surprised to see me engaged in this
work. I examined at least a dozen of them. They
were perfectly dry; they had come through the pipe,
and, most important of all, they were not house rats,
but field rats. The other end of the pipe was on
land, then, outside the prison walls. So far, so
good.
“Then, I knew that if I worked freely from this
point I must attract the warden's attention in another
direction. You see, by telling the warden that I had
come there to escape you made the test more severe,
because I had to trick him by false scents."
The warden looked up with a sad expression in his
eyes.
“The first thing was to make him think I was
trying to communicate with you, Dr. Ransome. So
I wrote a note on a piece of linen I tore from my.
shirt, addressed it to Dr. Ransome, tied a five-dollar
bill around it and threw it out the window. I knew
the guard would take it to the warden, but I rather
hoped the warden would send it as addressed. Have
you that first linen note, warden ? "
The warden produced the cipher.
“What the deuce does it mean, anyhow?” he
asked.
Read it backward, beginning with the 'T'sig-
nature and disregard the division into words," in-
structed The Thinking Machine.
The warden did so.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13 47
to Mr. F 18.
"T-h-i-s, this,” he spelled, studied it a moment,
then read it off, grinning:
“This is not the way I intend to escape."
“Well, now what do you think o' that?” he de-
manded, still grinning.
“I knew that would attract your attention, just as
it did," said The Thinking Machine," and if you
really found out what it was it would be a sort of
gentle rebuke.”
“What did you write it with?” asked Dr. Ran-
some, after he had examined the linen and passed it
This," said the erstwhile prisoner, and he ex-
tended his foot. On it was the shoe he had worn in
prison, though the polish was gone-scraped off
clean. “The shoe blacking, moistened with water,
was my ink; the metal tip of the shoe lace made a
fairly good pen.
The warden looked up and suddenly burst into a
laugh, half of relief, half of amusement.
“You're a wonder," he said, admiringly. 'Go
on.'
That precipitated a search of my cell by the
warden, as I had intended,” continued The Think-
ing Machine. “I was anxious to get the warden
into the habit of searching my cell, so that finally,
constantly finding nothing, he would get disgusted
and quit. This at last happened, practically."
The warden blushed.
"He then took
my
white shirt
away
and
gave me
a prison shirt. He was satisfied that those two pieces


48
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
nesses.
of the shirt were all that was missing. But while he
was searching my cell I had another piece of that
same shirt, about nine inches square, rolled into a
small ball in my mouth.”
“Nine inches of that shirt ?" demanded the war-
den. “Where did it come from?"
“ The bosoms of all stiff white shirts are of triple
thickness," was the explanation. “I tore out the
inside thickness, leaving the bosom only two thick-
I knew you wouldn't see it. So much for
that."
There was a little pause, and the warden looked
from one to another of the men with a sheepish
grin.
Having disposed of the warden for the time
being by giving him something else to think about, I
took my first serious step toward freedom," said
Professor Van Dusen. “I knew, within reason,
that the pipe led somewhere to the playground out-
side; I knew a great many boys played there; I knew
that rats came into my cell from out there. Could
I communicate with some one outside with these
things at hand?
“First was necessary, I saw, a long and fairly
reliable thread, so—but here,” he pulled up his trou-
sers legs and showed that the tops of both stockings,
of fine, strong lisle, were gone. “I unraveled those
-after I got them started it wasn't difficult—and I
had easily a quarter of a mile of thread that I could
depend on.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
49
“Then on half of my remaining linen I wrote,
laboriously enough I assure you, a letter explaining
my situation to this gentleman here," and he indi-
cated Hutchinson Hatch. “I knew he would assist
me—for the value of the newspaper story. I tied
firmly to this linen letter a ten-dollar bill—there is
no surer way of attracting the eye of anyone—and
wrote on the linen: Finder of this deliver to Hutch-
inson Hatch, Daily American, who will give another
ten dollars for the information.'
The next thing was to get this note outside on
that playground where a boy might find it. There
were two ways, but I chose the best. I took one of
the rats—I became adept in catching them—tied the
linen and money firmly to one leg, fastened my lisle
thread to another, and turned him loose in the drain
pipe. I reasoned that the natural fright of the
rodent would make him run until he was outside
the pipe and then out on earth he would probably
stop to gnaw off the linen and money.
From the moment the rat disappeared into that
dusty pipe I became anxious. I was taking so many
chances. The rat might gnaw the string, of which
I held one end; other rats might gnaw it; the rat
might run out of the pipe and leave the linen and
money where they would never be found; a thousand
other things might have happened. So began some
nervous hours, but the fact that the rat ran on
until only a few feet of the string remained in my cell
made me think he was outside the pipe. I had care-


50
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
fully instructed Mr. Hatch what to do in case the
note reached him. The question was: Would it
reach him?
This done, I could only wait and make other
plans in case this one failed. I openly attempted to
bribe my jailer, and learned from him that he held
the keys to only two of seven doors between me and
freedom. Then I did something else to make the
warden nervous. I took the steel supports out of the
heels of my shoes and made a pretense of sawing
the bars of my cell window. The warden raised a
pretty row about that. He developed, too, the habit
of shaking the bars of my cell window to see if they
were solid. They were—then.”
Again the warden grinned. He had ceased being
astonished.
"With this one plan I had done all I could and
could only wait to see what happened," the scientist
went on. “I couldn't know whether my note had
been delivered or even found, or whether the mouse
had gnawed it up. And I didn't dare to draw back
through the pipe that one slender thread which con-
nected me with the outside.
“When I went to bed that night I didn't sleep,
for fear there would come the slight signal twitch at
the thread which was to tell me that Mr. Hatch had
received the note. At half-past three o'clock, I
judge, I felt this twitch, and no prisoner actually
under sentence of death ever welcomed a thing more
heartily."
AN


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
51
The Thinking Machine stopped and turned to the
reporter.
“You'd better explain just what you did," he
said.
“The linen note was brought to me by a small
boy who had been playing baseball,” said Mr. Hatch.
“I immediately saw a big story in it, so I gave the
boy another ten dollars, and got several spools of
silk, some twine, and a roll of light, pliable wire.
The professor's note suggested that I have the finder
of the note show me just where it was picked up, and
told me to make my search from there, beginning at
two o'clock in the morning. If I found the other end
of the thread I was to twitch it gently three times,
then a fourth.
“I began the search with a small bulb electric
light. It was an hour and twenty minutes before I
found the end of the drain pipe, half hidden in weeds.
The pipe was very large there, say twelve inches
Then I found the end of the lisle thread,
twitched it as directed and immediately I got an
answering twitch.
Then I fastened the silk to this and Professor
Van Dusen began to pull it into his cell. I nearly had
heart disease for fear the string would break. To
the end of the silk I fastened the twine, and when
that had been pulled in I tied on the wire. Then that
was drawn into the pipe and we had a substantial line,
which rats couldn't gnaw, from the mouth of the
drain into the cell."
across.


52
13
THE PROBLEM OF CELL
The Thinking Machine raised his hand and Hatch
stopped.
“ All this was done in absolute silence,” said the
scientist. “But when the wire reached
my
hand I
could have shouted. Then we tried another experi-
ment, which Mr. Hatch was prepared for. I tested
the pipe as a speaking tube. Neither of us could
hear very clearly, but I dared not speak loud for fear
of attracting attention in the prison. At last I
made him understand what I wanted immediately.
He seemed to have great difficulty in understanding
when I asked for nitric acid, and I repeated the word
'acid' several times.
" Then I heard a shriek from a cell above me.
knew instantly that some one had overheard, and
when I heard you coming, Mr. Warden, I feigned
sleep. If
you
had entered
my
cell at that moment
that whole plan of escape would have ended there.
But you passed on. That was the nearest I ever
came to being caught.
Having established this improvised trolley it is
easy to see how I got things in the cell and made
them disappear at will. I merely dropped them back
into the pipe. You, Mr. Warden, could not have
reached the connecting wire with your fingers; they
are too large. My fingers, you see, are longer and
more slender. In addition I guarded the top of that
pipe with a rat-you remember how."
“I remember," said the warden, with a grimace.
“I thought that if any one were tempted to inves-


54
OF CELL 13
THE PROBLEM
6
my imprisonment. Mr. Hatch again had serious
difficulty in understanding me, and I repeated the
word acid' to him several times, and later the
words: “Number eight hat 'that's my size—and
these were the things which made a prisoner upstairs
confess to murder, so one of the jailers told me next
day. This prisoner heard our voices, confused of
course, through the pipe, which also went to his cell.
The cell directly over me was not occupied, hence no
one else heard.
“Of course the actual work of cutting the steel
bars out of the window and door was comparatively
easy with nitric acid, which I got through the pipe
in thin bottles, but it took time. Hour after hour
on the fifth and sixth and seven days the guard below
was looking at me as I worked on the bars of the
window with the acid on a piece of wire. I used the
tooth powder to prevent the acid spreading. I
looked away abstractedly as I worked and each min-
ute the acid cut deeper into the metal. I noticed that
the jailers always tried the door by shaking the upper
part, never the lower bars, therefore I cut the lower
bars, leaving them hanging in place by thin strips of
metal. But that was a bit of dare-deviltry. I could
not have gone that way so easily."
The Thinking Machine sat silent for several
minutes.
“I think that makes everything clear," he went
“Whatever points I have not explained vere
merely to confuse the warden and jailers. These
on.


THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
55
things in my bed I brought in to please Mr. Hatch,
who wanted to improve the story. Of course, the
wig was necessary in my plan. The special delivery
letter I wrote and directed in my cell with Mr.
Hatch's fountain pen, then sent it out to him and he
mailed it. That's all, I think."
“But your actually leaving the prison grounds and
then coming in through the outer gate to my office?"
asked the warden.
“Perfectly simple,” said the scientist. “I cut the
electric light wire with acid, as I said, when the cur-
rent was off. Therefore when the current was turned
on the arc didn't light. I knew it would take some
time to find out what was the matter and make re-
pairs. When the guard went to report to you the
yard was dark. I crept out the window-it was a
tight:fit, too—replaced the bars by standing on a nar-
row ledge and remained in a shadow until the force
of electricians arrived. Mr. Hatch was one of them.
“When I saw him I spoke and he handed me a
cap, a jumper and overalls, which I put on within
ten feet of you, Mr. Warden, while you were in the
yard. Later Mr. Hatch called me, presumably as
a workman, and together we went out the gate to
get something out of the wagon. The gate guard
let us pass out readily as two workmen who had just
passed in. We changed our clothing and reappeared,
asking to see you. We saw you. That's all.”
There was silence for several minutes. Dr. Ran-
some was first to speak.


56
THE PROBLEM OF CELL 13
66
“ Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Perfectly amaz-
ing."
'How did Mr. Hatch happen to come with the
electricians ? asked Mr. Fielding.
“ His father is manager of the company,” replied
The Thinking Machine.
“But what if there had been no Mr. Hatch out-
side to help ?”
Every prisoner has one friend outside who would
help him escape if he could.”
“Suppose—just suppose—there had been no
old plumbing system there?” asked the warden,
curiously.
“There were two other ways out,” said The
Thinking Machine, enigmatically.
Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang. It was
a request for the warden.
Light all right, eh?” the warden asked, through
the 'phone.
Good. Wire cut beside Cell 13?
Yes, I know. One electrician too many? What's
that? Two came out?"
The warden turned to the others with a puzzled
expression.
“He only let in four electricians, he has let out
two and says there are three left.”
“I was the odd one,” said The Thinking Machine.
“Oh,” said the warden. “I see.” Then through
the 'phone: “Let the fifth man go. He's all right."


SCARLET THREAD
59
health,”
commented the
I
v of the affair,” the
2 weeks or so ago
THE SCARLET THimidnight. He
tive of that
morning
hle to
The THINKING MACHINE–Professor Augustus ir.
F. X: Van Dusen, Ph.D., LL.D., F.R.S., M.D., etc.,
scientist and logician-listened intently and without
comment to a weird, seemingly inexplicable story.
Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, was telling it. The
bowed figure of the savant lay at ease in a large
chair. The enormous head with its bushy yellow hair
was thrown back, the thin, white fingers were pressed
tip to tip and the blue eyes, narrowed to mere slits,
squinted aggressively upward. The scientist was in
a receptive mood.
From the beginning, every fact you know," he
had requested.
“It's all out in the Back Bay," the reporter ex-
plained. “There is a big apartment house there, a
fashionable establishment, in a side street, just off
Commonwealth Avenue. It is five stories in all, and
is cut up into small suites, of two and three rooms
with bath. These suites are handsomely, even lux-
uriously furnished, and are occupied by people who
can afford to pay big rents. Generally these are
young unmarried men, although in several cases they
57


56 THE PROBLEM OF READ
ing."
66
Wonderful!” he exclailis a house of
a house of every mod-
or service, hall boys, liveried
' How did Mr. Heorridors and all that. It has
electricians ? " askeélectric systems of lighting. Ten-
His father rty to use either or both.
The Thinkig broker, Weldon Henley, occupies one
“But.andsomest of these suites, being on the second
side , in front. He has met with considerable suc-
cess in the Street. He is a bachelor and lives there
alone. There is no personal servant.
He dabbles
in photography as a hobby, and is said to be remark-
ably expert.
“Recently there was a report that he was to be
married this Winter to a beautiful Virginia girl who
has been visiting Boston from time to time, a
Miss Lipscomb—Charlotte Lipscomb, of Richmond.
Henley has never denied or affirmed this rumor,
although he has been asked about it often. Miss
Lipscomb is impossible of access even when she visits
Boston. Now, she is in Virginia, I understand, but
will return to Boston later in the season."
The reporter paused, lighted a cigarette and
leaned forward in his chair, gazing steadily into the
inscrutable eyes of the scientist.
When Henley took the suite he requested that
all the electric lighting apparatus be removed from
his apartments,” he went on. “He had taken a long
lease of the place, and this was done. Therefore he
uses only gas for lighting purposes, and he usually
keeps one of his gas jets burning low all night.'


THE SCARLET THREAD
59
“Bad, bad for his health," commented the
scientist.
“Now comes the mystery of the affair,” the
reporter went on. “ It was five weeks or so ago
Henley retired as usual—about midnight. He
locked his door on the inside—he is positive of that
—and awoke about four o'clock in the morning
nearly asphyxiated by gas. He was barely able to
get up and open the window to let in the fresh air.
The gas jet he had left burning was out, and the
suite was full of gas."
“Accident, possibly,” said The Thinking Ma-
chine. “A draught through the apartments; a slight
diminution of gas pressure; a hundred possibilities.”
So it was presumed,” said the reporter. “Of
course it would have been impossible for "
Nothing is impossible,' said the other, tartly.
“Don't say that. It annoys me exceedingly."
“Well, then, it seems highly improbable that the
door had been opened or that anyone came into the
room and did this deliberately," the newspaper man
went on, with a slight smile. “So Henley said noth-
ing about this; attributed it to accident. The next
night he lighted his gas as usual, but he left it burn-
ing a little brighter. The same thing happened
again."
Ah," and The Thinking Machine changed his
position a little. “ The second time."
“And again he awoke just in time to save him-
self," said Hatch. “ Still he attributed the affair to


60
THE SCARLET THREAD
accident, and determined to avoid a recurrence of
the affair by doing away with the gas at night. Then
he got a small night lamp and used this for a week
or more."
“Why does he have a light at all?" asked the
scientist, testily.
“I can hardly answer that,” replied Hatch. “I
may say, however, that he is of a very nervous tem-
perament, and gets up frequently during the night.
He reads occasionally when he can't sleep. In addi-
tion to that he has slept with a light going all his
life; it's a habit."
“Go on."
One night he looked for the night lamp, but it
had disappeared-at least he couldn't find it—so he
lighted the gas again. The fact of the gas having
twice before gone out had been dismissed as a serious
possibility. Next morning at five o'clock a bell boy,
passing through the hall, smelled gas and made a
quick investigation. He decided it came from Hen-
ley's place, and rapped on the door. There was no
It ultimately developed that it was neces-
sary to smash in the door. There on the bed they
found Henley unconscious with the gas pouring into
the room from the jet which he had left lighted. He
was revived in the air, but for several hours was
deathly sick."
“Why was the door smashed in ?" asked The
Thinking Machine. “Why not unlocked?”
“It was done because Henley had firmly barred
answer.


THE SCARLET
61
THREAD
it,” Hatch explained. “He had become suspicious,
I suppose, and after the second time he always barred
his door and fastened every window before he went
to sleep. There may have been a fear that some one
used a key to enter."
“Well?" asked the scientist. “ After that?"
Three weeks or so elapsed, bringing the affair
down to this morning,” Hatch went on.
" Then the
same thing happened a little differently. For in-
stance, after the third time the gas went out Henley
decided to find out for himself what caused it, and
· so expressed himself to a few friends who knew of
the mystery. Then, night after night, he lighted the
gas as usual and kept watch. It was never disturbed
during all that time, burning steadily all night.
What sleep he got was in daytime.
Last night Henley lay awake for a time; then,
exhausted and tired, fell asleep. This morning early
he awoke; the room was filled with gas again. In
some way my city editor heard of it and asked me to
look into the mystery."
That was all. The two men were silent for a long
time, and finally The Thinking Machine turned to
the reporter.
“Does anyone else in the house keep gas going all
night?” he asked.
“I don't know," was the reply. “Most of them,
I know, use electricity."
“Nobody else has been overcome as he has
been?”


62
THE SCARLET THREAD
"No. Plumbers have minutely examined the
lighting system all over the house and found nothing
wrong.
“Does the gas in the house all come through the
same meter?”
“Yes, so the manager told me. This meter, a
big one, is just off the engine room. I supposed it
possible that some one shut it off there on these nights
long enough to extinguish the lights all over the
house, then turned it on again. That is, presuming
that it was done purposely. Do you think it was an
attempt to kill Henley ? "
“It might be," was the reply. “Find out for
me just who in the house uses gas; also if anyone
else leaves a light burning all night; also what oppor-
tunity anyone would have to get at the meter, and
then something about Henley's love affair with Miss
Lipscomb. Is there anyone else? If so, who?
Where does he live? When you find out these things
come back here."
That afternoon at one o'clock Hatch returned to
the apartments of The Thinking Machine, with
excitement plainly apparent on his face.
“ Well?” asked the scientist.
“A French girl, Louise Regnier, employed as a
maid by Mrs. Standing in the house, was found dead
in her room on the third floor to-day at noon,” Hatch
explained quickly. “ It looks like suicide."
“How?” asked The Thinking Machine.


THE SCARLET THREAD
63
“The people who employed her-husband and
wife—have been away for a couple of days,” Hatch
rushed on. “She was in the suite alone. This noon
she had not appeared, there was an odor of gas and
the door was broken in. Then she was found dead.”
“With the gas turned on?”
“With the gas turned on. She was asphyxiated.”
“Dear me, dear me," exclaimed the scientist. He
arose and took up his hat. “Let's go see what this
is all about."
II
When Professor Van Dusen and Hatch arrived at
the apartment house they had been preceded by the
Medical Examiner and the police. Detective Mal-
lory, whom both knew, was moving about in the
apartment where the girl had been found dead. The
body had been removed and a telegram sent to her
employers in New York.
“ Too late,” said Mallory, as they entered.
What was it, Mr. Mallory? " asked the scientist.
Suicide," was the reply. “No question of it.
It happened in this room,” and he led the way into
the third room of the suite. The maid, Miss Reg-
nier, occupied this, and was here alone last night.
Mr. and Mrs. Standing, her employers, have gone to
New York for a few days. She was left alone, and
killed herself.”
Without further questioning The Thinking Ma-


64
THE SCARLET THREAD
chine went over to the bed, from which the girl's
body had been taken, and, stooping beside it, picked
up a book. It was a novel by “The Duchess." He
examined this critically, then, standing on a chair,
he examined the gas jet. This done, he stepped down
and went to the window of the little room. Finally
The Thinking Machine turned to the detective.
“Just how much was the gas turned on?” he
asked.
“ Turned on full,” was the reply.
“ Were both the doors of the room closed?"
“Both, yes."
Any cotton, or cloth, or anything of the sort
stuffed in the cracks of the window?
“No. It's a tight-fitting window, anyway. Are
you trying to make a mystery out of this ? "
“ Cracks in the doors stuffed?" The Thinking
Machine went on.
"No." There was a smile about the detective's
lips.
The Thinking Machine, on his knees, examined
the bottom of one of the doors, that which led into
the hall. The lock of this door had been broken
when employees burst into the room. Having satis-
fied himself here and at the bottom of the other door,
which connected with the bedroom adjoining, The
Thinking Machine again climbed on a chair and
examined the doors at the top.
“Both transoms closed, I suppose ?” he asked.
Yes,” was the reply. “ You can't make any-


66
THE SCARLET THREAD
together they went to the basement, and there met
the night engineer, Charles Burlingame, a tall, pow-
erful, clean-cut man, of alert manner and positive
speech. He gazed with a little amusement at the
slender, almost childish figure of The Thinking Ma-
chine and the grotesquely large head.
You are in the engine room or near it all night
every night?” began The Thinking Machine.
“I haven't missed a night in four years," was the
reply.
Anybody ever come here to see you at night?”
Never. It's against the rules."
“The manager or a hall boy?”
“ Never.”
“In the last two months ? ” The Thinking Ma-
chine persisted.
'Not in the last two years," was the positive reply.
“I go on duty every night at seven o'clock, and I am
on duty until seven in the morning. I don't believe
I've seen anybody in the basement here with me
between those hours for a year at least."
The Thinking Machine was squinting steadily into
the eyes of the engineer, and for a time both were
silent. Hatch moved about the scrupulously clean
engine room and nodded to the day engineer, who
sat leaning back against the wall. Directly in front
of him was the steam gauge.
“ Have you a fireman?” was The Thinking Ma-
chine's next question.
“No. I fire myself,” said the night man.


THE SCARLET THREAD
67
“Here's the coal," and he indicated a bin within
half a dozen feet of the mouth of the boiler.
“I don't suppose you ever had occasion to handle
the gas meter?” insisted The Thinking Machine.
“Never touched it in my life," said the other. “I
don't know anything about meters, anyway.
“And you never drop off to sleep at night
for a few minutes when you get lonely? Doze, I
mean?”
The engineer grinned good-naturedly.
“Never had any desire to, and besides I wouldn't
have the chance," he explained. “There's a time
check here,”—and he indicated it. “I have to punch
that every half hour all night to prove that I have
been awake.”
“Dear me, dear me,” exclaimed The Thinking
Machine, irritably. He went over and examined the
time, check—a revolving paper disk with hours
marked on it, made to move by the action of a clock,
the face of which showed in the middle.
Besides there's the steam gauge to watch," went
on the engineer. “No engineer would dare go to
sleep. There might be an explosion.”
“Do you know Mr. Weldon Henley ? " suddenly
asked The Thinking Machine.
“Who? " asked Burlingame.
Weldon Henley ? ”
No-o," was the slow response.
“ Never heard
of him. Who is he?"
One of the tenants, on the second floor, I think.”


68
THE SCARLET THREAD
Lord, I don't know any of the tenants. What
about him?"
When does the inspector come here to read the
meter?"
“I never saw him. I presume in daytime, eh
Bill ? ” and he turned to the day engineer.
“Always in daytime—usually about noon," said
Bill from his corner.
Any other entrance to the basement except this
way—and you could see anyone coming here this
way I suppose ?”
“ Sure I could see 'em. There's no other entrance
to the cellar except the coal hole in the sidewalk in
front."
“Two big electric lights in front of the building,
aren't there?"
“Yes. They go all night.”
A slightly puzzled expression crept into the eyes
of The Thinking Machine. Hatch knew from the
persistency of the questions that he was not satisfied;
yet he was not able to fathom or to understand all
the queries. In some way they had to do with the
possibility of some one having access to the meter.
“Where do you usually sit at night here?”
the next question.
“Over there where Bill's sitting. I always sit
there."
The Thinking Machine crossed the room to Bill,
a typical, grimy-handed man of his class.
May I sit there a moment?” he asked.
was


THE SCARLET THREAD
69
Bill arose lazily, and The Thinking Machine
sank down into the chair. From this point he could
see plainly through the opening into the basement
proper—there was no door—the gas meter of enor-
mous proportions through which all the gas in the
house passed. An electric light in the door made it
bright as daylight. The Thinking Machine noted
these things, arose, nodded his thanks to the two
men and, still with the puzzled expression on his
face, led the way upstairs. There the manager was
still in his office.
“I
presume you
examine and know that the time
check in the engineer's room is properly punched
every half-hour during the night?” he asked.
“Yes. I examine the dial every day—have them
here, in fact, each with the date on it."
“May I see them?”.
Now the manager was puzzled. He produced the
cards, one for each day, and for half an hour The
Thinking Machine studied them minutely. At the
end of that time, when he arose and Hatch looked at
him inquiringly, he saw still the perplexed expression.
After urgent solicitation, the manager admitted
them to the apartments of Weldon Henley. Mr.
Henley himself had gone to his office in State Street.
Here The Thinking Machine did several things
which aroused the curiosity of the manager, one of
which was to minutely study the gas jets. Then The
Thinking Machine opened one of the front windows
and glanced out into the street. Below fifteen feet


*70
THE SCARLET THREAD
was the sidewalk; above was the solid front of the
building, broken only by a flagpole which, properly
roped, extended from the hall window of the next
floor above out over the sidewalk a distance of twelve
feet or so.
“Ever use that flagpole ? ” he asked the manager.
Rarely,” said the manager.
“On holidays
sometimes—Fourth of July and such times. We
have a big flag for it.”
From the apartments The Thinking Machine led
the way to the hall, up the stairs and to the flagpole.
Leaning out of this window, he looked down toward
the window of the apartments he had just left. Then
he inspected the rope of the flagpole, drawing it
through his slender hands slowly and carefully. At
last he picked off a slender thread of scarlet and ex-
amined it.
Ah," he exclaimed. Then to Hatch:
Hatch: "Let's
go, Mr. Hatch. Thank you,” this last to the mana-
ger, who had been a puzzled witness.
Once on the street, side by side with The Thinking
Machine, Hatch was bursting with questions, but he
didn't ask them. He knew it would be useless. At
last The Thinking Machine broke the silence.
“That girl, Miss Regnier, was murdered,” he
said suddenly, positively. “There have been four
attempts to murder Henley."
How?” asked Hatch, startled.
“ By a scheme so simple that neither you nor I
nor the police have ever heard of it being employed,"


THE SCARLET THREAD
71
was the astonishing reply. “It is perfectly horrible
in its simplicity.”
What was it?” Hatch insisted, eagerly.
" It would be futile to discuss that now," was the
rejoinder. " There has been murder. We know
how. Now the question is—who? What
would have a motive to kill Henley ?”
What person
III
THERE was a pause as they walked on.
'Where are we going?” asked Hatch finally.
Come
up
to
my
place and let's consider this mat-
ter a bit further,” replied The Thinking Machine.
Not another word was spoken by either until half
an hour later, in the small laboratory. For a long
time the scientist was thoughtful-deeply thought-
ful. Once he took down a volume from a shelf and
Hatch glanced at the title. It was
It was "Gases: Their
Properties." After awhile he returned this to the
shelf and took down another, on which the reporter
caught the title, “ Anatomy.”.
“Now, Mr. Hatch," said The Thinking Ma-
chine in his perpetually crabbed voice, “we have a
most remarkable riddle. It gains this remarkable
aspect from its very simplicity. It is not, however,
necessary to go into that now. I will make it clear
to you when we know the motives.
As a general rule, the greatest crimes never come


72
THE SCARLET THREAD
to light because the greatest criminals, their perpe-
trators, are too clever to be caught. Here we have
what I might call a great crime committed with a
subtle simplicity that is wholly disarming, and a
greater crime even than this was planned. This was
to murder Weldon Henley. The first thing for you
to do is to see Mr. Henley and warn him of his
danger. Asphyxiation will not be attempted again,
but there is a possibility of poison, a pistol shot, a
knife, anything almost. As a matter of fact, he is
in great peril.
Superficially, the death of Miss Regnier, the
'maid, looks to be suicide. Instead it is the fruition
of a plan which has been tried time and again
against Henley. There is a possibility that Miss
Regnier was not an intentional victim of the plot,
but the fact remains that she was murdered. Why?
Find the motive for the plot to murder Mr. Henley
and you will know why."
The Thinking Machine reached over to the shelf,
took a book, looked at it a moment, then went on:
“The first question to determine positively is:
Who hated Weldon Henley sufficiently to desire his
death? You say he is a successful man in the Street.
Therefore there is a possibility that some enemy
there is at the bottom of the affair, yet it seems hardly
probable. If by his operations Mr. Henley ever hap-
pened to wreck another man's fortune find this man
and find out all about him. He may be the man.
There will be innumerable questions arising from this
6


THE SCARLET THREAD
73
line of inquiry to a man of your resources. Leave
none of them unanswered.
“On the other hand there is Henley's love affair.
Had he a rival who might desire his death? Had
he any rival? If so, find out all about him. He may
be the man who planned all this. Here, too, there
will be questions arising which demand answers.
Answer them—all of them—fully and clearly before
you see me again.
“Was Henley ever a party to a liason of any
kind? Find that out, too. A vengeful woman or a
discarded sweetheart of a vengeful woman, you
know, will go to any extreme. The rumor of his
engagement to Miss-Miss-
“Miss Lipscomb," Hatch supplied.
“The rumor of his engagement to Miss Lips-
comb might have caused a woman whom he had once
been interested in or who was once interested in him
to attempt his life. The subtler murders—that is,
the ones which are most attractive as problems—are
nearly always the work of a cunning woman. I
know nothing about women myself," he hastened to
explain; “but Lombroso has taken that attitude.
Therefore, see if there is a woman."
Most of these points Hatch had previously seen-
seen with the unerring eye of a clever newspaper
reporter—yet there were several which had not oc-
curred to him. He nodded his understanding.
“Now the center of the affair, of course," The
Thinking Machine continued, “is the apartment


74
THE SCARLET THREAD
I am
house where Henley lives. The person who at-
tempted his life either lives there or has ready access
to the place, and frequently spends the night there.
This is a vital question for you to answer.
leaving all this to you because you know better
how to do these things than I do. That's all, I
think. When these things are all learned come back
to me."
The Thinking Machine arose as if the interview
were at an end, and Hatch also arose, reluctantly.
An idea was beginning to dawn in his mind.
“Does it occur to you that there is any connection
whatever between Henley and Miss Regnier ? ” he
asked.
“ It is possible," was the reply. “ I had thought
of that. If there is a connection it is not apparent
yet.”
“Then how-how was it she-she was killed, or
killed herself, whichever
may be true, and
"The attempt to kill Henley killed 'her. That's
now."
That all?" asked Hatch, after a pause.
“No. Warn Mr. Henley immediately that he is
in grave danger. Remember the person who has
planned this will probably go to any extreme.
don't know Mr. Henley, of course, but from the fact
that he always had a light at night I gather that he
is a timid sort of man—not necessarily a coward,
but a man lacking in stamina—therefore, one who
might better disappear for a week or so until the
all I can say
I


THE SCARLET THREAD
75
mystery is cleared up. Above all, impress upon him
the importance of the warning."
The Thinking Machine opened his pocketbook
and took from it the scarlet thread which he had
picked from the rope of the flagpole.
Here, I believe, is the real clew to the prob-
lem,” he explained to Hatch. “What does it seem
to be?”
Hatch examined it closely.
“I should say a strand from a Turkish bath robe,”
was his final judgment.
“Possibly. Ask some cloth expert what he makes
of it, then if it sounds promising look into it. Find
out if by any possibility it can be any part of any
garment worn by any person in the apartment house."
“But it's so slight-" Hatch began.
"I know," the other interrupted, tartly. “It's
slight, but I believe it is a part of the wearing apparel
of the person, man or woman, who has four times
attempted to kill Mr. Henley and who did kill the
girl. Therefore, it is important."
Hatch looked at him quickly.
Well, how-in what manner-did it come where
you found it?"
Simple enough,” said the scientist.
wonder that there were not more pieces of it—that's
all."
Perplexed by his instructions, but confident of re-
• sults, Hatch left The Thinking Machine. What
possible connection could this tiny bit of scarlet
" It is a


THE SCARLET THREAD
“He lives in the same apartment house with me
two floors above," was the reply.
Hatch was startled; startled more than he would
have cared to admit.
“Are you on friendly terms with him?" he asked.
'Certainly,” said Henley. “I won't say anything
further about this matter. It would be unwise for
obvious reasons."
“I suppose you consider that this turning on of the
gas was an attempt on your life?"
“I can't suppose anything else."
Hatch studied the pallid face closely as he asked
the next question.
'Do you know Miss Regnier was found dead
to-day?'
Dead?” exclaimed the other, and he arose.
“Who—what—who is she?"
It seemed a distinct effort for him to regain con-
trol of himself.
The reporter detailed then the circumstances of
the finding of the girl's body, and the broker listened
without comment. From that time forward all the
reporter's questions were either parried or else met
with a flat refusal to answer. Finally Hatch repeated
to him the warning which he had from The Think-
ing Machine, and feeling that he had accomplished
little, went away.
At eight o'clock that night—a night of complete
darkness—Henley was found unconscious, lying in a
little used walk in the Common. There was a bullet


THE SCARLET THREAD
hole through his left shoulder, and he was bleeding
profusely. He was removed to the hospital, where
he regained consciousness for just a moment.
“Who shot you ?” he was asked.
“None of your business,” he replied, and lapsed
into unconsciousness.
IV
ENTIRELY unaware of this latest attempt on the life
of the broker, Hutchinson Hatch steadily pursued
his investigations. They finally led him to an inti-
mate friend of Regnault Cabell. The young South-
erner had apartments on the fourth floor of the big
house off Commonwealth Avenue, directly over those
Henley occupied, but two flights higher up. This
friend was a figure in the social set of the Back Bay.
He talked to Hatch freely of Cabell.
"He's a good fellow,' ” he explained,
one of the
best I ever met, and comes of one of the best families
Virginia ever had—a true F. F. V. He's pretty
quick tempered and all that, but an excellent chap,
and everywhere he has gone here he has made
friends."
"He used to be in love with Miss Lipscomb of
Virginia, didn't he?" asked Hatch, casually.
Used to be?” the other repeated with a laugh.
“ He is in love with her. But recently he understood
that she was engaged to Weldon Henley, a broker-
you may have heard of him?—and that, I suppose,


THE SCARLET THREAD
79
has dampened his ardor considerably. As a matter
of fact, Cabell took the thing to heart. He used to
know Miss Lipscomb in Virginia—she comes from
another famous family there—and he seemed to
think he had a prior claim on her."
Hatch heard all these things as any man might
listen to gossip, but each additional fact was sinking
into his mind, and each additional fact led his sus-
picions on deeper into the channel they had chosen.
“Cabell is pretty well to do,” his informant went
on, not rich as we count riches in the North, but
pretty well to do, and I believe he came to Boston
because Miss Lipscomb spent so much of her time
here. She is a beautiful young woman of twenty-two
and extremely popular in the social world every-
where, particularly in Boston. Then there was the
additional fact that Henley was here.'
“No chance at all for Cabell?” Hatch suggested.
“Not the slightest," was the reply. “Yet despite
the heartbreak he had, he was the first to congratu-
late Henley on winning her love. And he meant it,
too.'
What's his attitude toward Henley now?" asked
Hatch. His voice was calm, but there was an under-
lying tense note imperceptible to the other.
They meet and speak and move in the same set.
There's no love lost on either side, I don't suppose,
but there is no trace of any ill feeling.”
Cabell doesn't happen to be a vindictive sort of
man?"


80
THE SCARLET THREAD
“ Vindictive?” and the other laughed. “No.
He's like a big boy, forgiving, and all that; hot-
tempered, though. I could imagine him in a fit of
anger making a personal matter of it with Henley,
but I don't think he ever did.”
The mind of the newspaper man was rapidly
focusing on one point; the rush of thoughts, ques-
tions and doubts silenced him for a moment. Then:
How long has Cabell been in Boston ?
“Seven or eight months—that is, he has had
apartments here for that long—but he has made
several visits South. I suppose it's South. He has
a trick of dropping out of sight occasionally. I
understand that he intends to go South for good
very soon. If I'm not mistaken, he is trying now to
rent his suite."
Hatch looked suddenly at his informant; an idea
of seeing Cabell and having a legitimate excuse for
talking to him had occurred to him.
“ I'm looking for a suite," he volunteered at last.
“I wonder if you would give me a card of introduc-
tion to him? We might get together on it."
Thus it happened that half an hour later, about
ten minutes past nine o'clock, Hatch was on his way
to the big apartment house. In the office he saw the
manager.
Heard the news?” asked the manager.
“No," Hatch replied. “What is it?"
“Somebody's shot Mr. Henley as he was passing
through the Common early to-night.”


THE SCARLET THREAD
81
Hatch whistled his amazement.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but he is unconscious. The hospital doc-
tors say it is a nasty wound, but not necessarily
dangerous.
“Who shot him? Do they know?
“He knows, but he won't say.”
Amazed and alarmed by this latest development,
an accurate fulfillment of The Thinking Machine's
prophecy, Hatch stood thoughtful for a moment,
then recovering his composure a little asked for
Cabell.
“I don't think there's much chance of seeing
him," said the manager. “He's going away on the
midnight train-going South, to Virginia.”
“Going away to-night?” Hatch gasped.
“Yes; it seems to have been rather a sudden deter-
mination. He was talking to me here half an hour or
so ago, and said something about going away. While
he was here the telephone boy told me that Hen-
ley had been shot; they had 'phoned from the
hospital to inform us. Then Cabell seemed greatly
agitated. He said he was going away to-night, if
he could catch the midnight train, and now he's
packing."
"I suppose the shooting of Henley upset him
considerably? " the reporter suggested.
“Yes, I guess it did," was the reply. “They
moved in the same set and belonged to the same
clubs.”


82
THE SCARLET THREAD
The manager sent Hatch's card of introduction
to Cabell's apartments. Hatch went up and was
ushered into a suite identical with that of Henley's
in every respect save in minor details of furnishings.
Cabell stood in the middle of the floor, with his per-
sonal belongings scattered about the room; his valet,
evidently a Frenchman, was busily engaged in
packing
Cabell's greeting was perfunctorily cordial; he
seemed agitated. His face was flushed and from
time to time he ran his fingers through his long,
brown hair. He stared at Hatch in a preoccupied
fashion, then they fell into conversation about the
rent of the apartments.
' I'll take almost anything reasonable,” Cabell
said hurriedly. “You see, I am going away to-night,
rather more suddenly than I had intended, and I am
anxious to get the lease off my hands. I pay two
hundred dollars a month for these just as they
are."
May I look them over?" asked Hatch.
He passed from the front room into the next.
Here, on a bed, was piled a huge lot of clothing,
and the valet, with deft fingers, was brushing and
folding, preparatory to packing. Cabell was directly
behind him.
Quite comfortable, you see,” he explained.
“There's room enough if you are alone. Are you?”
Oh, yes,” Hatch replied.
“This other room here," Cabell explained, "is


THE SCARLET THREAD
83
not in very tidy shape now. I have been out of the
city for several weeks, and What's the mat-
ter?” he demanded suddenly.
Hatch had turned quickly at the words and stared
at him, then recovered himself with a start.
“I beg your pardon," he stammered. “I rather
thought I saw you in town here a week or so ago
of course I didn't know you—and I was wondering
if I could have been mistaken.'
“Must have been," said the other easily. “Dur-
ing the time I was away a Miss -, a friend of my
sister's, occupied the suite. I'm afraid some of her
things are here. She hasn't sent for them as yet.
She occupied this room, I think; when I came back
a few days ago she took another place and all her
things haven't been removed.”
“I see,” remarked Hatch, casually. “I don't sup-
pose there's any chance of her returning here unex-
pectedly if I should happen to take her apartments ? "
“Not the slightest. She knows I am back, and
thinks I am to remain. She was to send for these
things.
Hatch gazed about the room ostentatiously.
Across a trunk lay a Turkish bath robe with a scarlet
stripe in it. He was anxious to get hold of it, to
examine it closely. But he didn't dare to, then.
Together they returned to the front room.
“I rather like the place,” he said, after a pause,
“ but the price is
“Just a moment,” Cabell interrupted. “Jean,


THE SCARLET THREAD
85
up the suite to Miss Austin entirely, and until Mr.
Cabell returned occupied a room in the quarters we
have for our own employees."
“Was Miss Austin ailing any way?” asked
Hatch. “I saw a large number of medicine bottles
upstairs."
“I don't know what was the matter with her,"
replied the manager, with a little puzzled frown.
“She certainly was not a woman of sound mental
balance—that is, she was eccentric, and all that. I
think rather it was an act of charity for Mr. Cabell
to let her have the suite in his absence. Certainly
we didn't want her."
Hatch passed out and burst in eagerly upon The
Thinking Machine in his laboratory.
“Here,” he said, and triumphantly he extended
the tiny scarlet strand which he had received from
The Thinking Machine, and the other of the identi-
cal color which came from Cabell's bath robe. “Is
that the same?"
The Thinking Machine placed them under the
microscope and examined them immediately. Later
he submitted them to a chemical test.
“ It is the same," he said, finally.
“Then the mystery is solved,” said Hatch, con-
clusively.


86
THE SCARLET THREAD
V
THE THINKING MACHINE stared steadily into the
eager, exultant eyes of the newspaper man until
Hatch at last began to fear that he had been precipi-
tate. After awhile, under close scrutiny, the reporter
began to feel convinced that he had made a mistake
he didn't quite see where, but it must be there, and
the exultant manner passed. The voice of The
Thinking Machine was like a cold shower.
Remember, Mr. Hatch,” he said, critically,
" that unless every possible question has been consid-
ered one cannot boast of a solution. Is there any
possible question lingering yet in your mind?”
The reporter silently considered that for a mo-
ment,
then:
“Well, I have the main facts, anyway. There
may be one or two minor questions left, but the
principal ones are answered.''
“Then tell me, to the minutest detail, what you
have learned, what has happened."
Professor Van Dusen sank back in his old, familiar
pose in the large arm chair and Hatch related
what he had learned and what he surmised. He
related, too, the peculiar circumstances surrounding
the wounding of Henley, and right on down to the
beginning and end of the interview with Cabell in
the latter's apartments. The Thinking Machine was
silent for a time, then there came a host of questions.


THE SCARLET THREAD
87
"Do you know where the woman-Miss Austin
-is now?
was the first.
“No," Hatch had to admit.
“Or her precise mental condition?”
“No."
“Or her exact relationship to Cabell?"
"No."
“Do you know, then, what the valet, Jean, knows
of the affair?"
No, not that,” said the reporter, and his face
flushed under the close questioning. “He was out
of the suite every night.”
Therefore might have been the very one who
turned on the gas," the other put in testily.
“So far as I can learn, nobody could have gone
into that room and turned on the gas,” said the
reporter, somewhat aggressively. “Henley barred
the doors and windows and kept watch, night after
night.”
Yet the moment he was exhausted and fell asleep
the gas was turned on to kill him," said The Think-
ing Machine;" thus we see that he was watched more
closely than he watched.”
“I see what you mean now," said Hatch, after a
long pause.
“I should like to know what Henley and Cabell
and the valet knew of the girl who was found dead,"
The Thinking Machine suggested. “Further, I
should like to know if there was a good-sized mirror
-not one set in a bureau or dresser either in Hen-


88
THE SCARLET THREAD
1
ley's room or the apartments where the girl was
found. Find out this for me and — never mind.
I'll go with you."
The scientist left the room. When he returned
he wore his coat and hat. Hatch arose mechanic-
ally to follow. For a block or more they walked
along, neither speaking. The Thinking Machine
was the first to break the silence:
“You believe Cabell is the man who attempted
to kill Henley ?
“Frankly, yes," replied the newspaper man.
Why?”
“Because he had the motive-disappointed love."
“How?"
"I don't know," Hatch confessed. “The doors
of the Henley suite were closed. I don't see how any-
body passed them."
“ And the girl? Who killed her? How? Why?"
Disconsolately Hatch shook his head as he walked
The Thinking Machine interpreted his silence
aright.
“Don't jump at conclusions,” he advised sharply.
" You are confident Cabell was to blame for
this—and he might have been, I don't know yet-
but you can suggest nothing to show how he did it.
I have told you before that imagination is half of
logic.".
At last the lights of the big apartment house where
Henley lived came in sight. Hatch shrugged his
shoulders. He had grave doubts-based on what
on.


THE SCARLET THREAD
89
he knew-whether The Thinking Machine would
be able to see Cabell. It was nearly eleven o'clock
and Cabell was to leave for the South at midnight.
Is Mr. Cabell here?” asked the scientist of the
elevator boy.
Yes, just about to go, though. He won't see
anyone.”
“Hand him this note,” instructed The Thinking
Machine, and he scribbled something on a piece of
paper.
"He'll see us."
The boy took the paper and the elevator shot up
to the fourth floor. After awhile he returned.
"He'll see you," he said.
“ Is he unpacking?"
After he read your note twice he told his valet
to unpack," the boy replied.
Ah, I thought so,” said The Thinking Machine.
With Hatch, mystified and puzzled, following,
The Thinking Machine entered the elevator to step
out a second or so later on the fourth floor. As they
left the car they saw the door of Cabell's apart-
ment standing open; Cabell was in the door. Hatch
traced a glimmer of anxiety in the eyes of the young
man.
“ Professor Van Dusen ?” Cabell inquired.
“ Yes," said the scientist. “It was of the utmost
importance that I should see you, otherwise I should
not have come at this time of night.”
With a wave of his hand Cabell passed that detail.
“I was anxious to get away at midnight," he ex-


90
THE SCARLET THREAD
plained, “but, of course, now I shan't go, in view of
your note. I have ordered my valet to unpack my
things, at least until to-morrow.”
The reporter and the scientist passed into the lux-
uriously furnished apartments. Jean, the valet, was
bending over a suit case as they entered, removing
some things he had been carefully placing there. He
didn't look back or pay the least attention to the
visitors.
“This is your valet?” asked The Thinking
Machine.
“ Yes," said the
young man.
“French, isn't he?"
“ Yes."
"Speak English at all?”
“Very badly,” said Cabell. “I use French when
I talk to him."
“Does he know that you are accused of murder ?”
asked The Thinking Machine, in a quiet, conversa-
tional tone.
The effect of the remark on Cabell was startling.
He staggered back a step or so as if he had been
struck in the face, and a crimson flush overspread his
brow. Jean, the valet, straightened up suddenly and
looked around. There was a queer expression, too,
in his eyes; an expression which Hatch could not
fathom.
“Murder ? ” gasped Cabell, at last.
“Yes, he speaks English all right," remarked The
Thinking Machine. Now, Mr. Cabell, will you


THE SCARLET THREAD
91
« Miss
please tell me just who Miss Austin is, and where
she is, and her mental condition ? Believe me, it
may save you a great deal of trouble. What I said
in the note is not exaggerated."
The young man turned suddenly and began to
pace back and forth across the room. After a few
minutes he paused before The Thinking Machine,
who stood impatiently waiting for an answer.
“ I'll tell you, yes,” said Cabell, firmly.
Austin is a middle-aged woman whom my sister
befriended several times—was, in fact, my sister's
governess when she was a child. Of late
years
she
has not been wholly right mentally, and has suffered
a great deal of privation. I had about concluded
arrangements to put her in a private sanitarium. I
permitted her to remain in these rooms in my
absence, South. I did not take Jean—he lived in
the quarters of the other employees of the place, and
gave the apartment entirely to Miss Austin. It was
simply an act of charity.”
“What was the cause of your sudden determina-
tion to go South to-night?” asked the scientist.
“I won't answer that question,” was the sullen
reply.
There was a long, tense silence. Jean, the valet,
came and went several times.
“How long has Miss Austin known Mr.
Henley ? "
"Presumably since she has been in these apart-
ments,” was the reply.


92
THE SCARLET THREAD
“Are you sure you are not Miss Austin ? ” de-
manded the scientist.
The question was almost staggering, not only to
Cabell, but to Hatch. Suddenly, with flaming face,
the young Southerner leaped forward as if to strike
down The Thinking Machine.
"That won't do any good," said the scientist,
coldly. “ Are you sure you are not Miss Austin ?"
he repeated.
Certainly I am not Miss Austin,” responded
Cabell, fiercely.
“Have you a mirror in these apartments about
twelve inches by twelve inches ? ” asked The Think-
ing Machine, irrelevantly.
“1-I don't know," stammered the young man.
“I—have we, Jean?”
Oui,” replied the valet.
“Yes,” snapped The Thinking Machine. " Talk
English, please. May I see it?”
The valet, without a word but with a sullen glance
at the questioner, turned and left the room. He
returned after a moment with the mirror. The
Thinking Machine carefully examined the frame,
top and bottom and on both sides. At last he looked
up; again the valet was bending over a suit case.
“Do you use gas in these apartments ? " the scien-
tist asked suddenly.
“No," was the bewildered response.
" What is
all this, anyway?"
Without answering, The Thinking Machine drew


94
THE SCARLET THREAD
VI
Then came a fierce, hard fight for possession of the
revolver. It ended with the weapon in Hatch's hand,
and both he and Cabell blowing from the effort they
had expended. Jean, the valet, had turned at the
sound of the shot and started toward the door lead-
ing into the hall. The Thinking Machine had
stepped in front of him, and now stood there with
his back to the door. Physically he would have been
a child in the hands of the valet, yet there was a look
in his eyes which stopped him.
Now, Mr. Hatch," said the scientist quietly,
a touch of irony in his voice, “ hand me the revolver,
then 'phone for Detective Mallory to come here im-
mediately. Tell him we have a murderer—and if
he can't come at once get some other detective whom
you
know."
Murderer!” gasped Cabell.
Uncontrollable rage was blazing in the eyes of the
valet, and he made as if to throw The Thinking
Machine aside, despite the revolver, when Hatch
was at the telephone. As Jean started forward,
however, Cabell stopped him with a quick, stern
gesture. Suddenly the young Southerner turned on
The Thinking Machine; but it was with a question.
What does it all mean?” he asked, bewildered.
“ It means that that man there," and The Think-
ing Machine indicated the valet by a nod of his head,


THE SCARLET THREAD
95
"is a murderer—that he killed Louise Regnier; that
he shot Weldon Henley on Boston Common, and
that, with the aid of Miss Regnier, he had four times
previously attempted to kill Mr. Henley. Is he
coming, Mr. Hatch?”
Yes," was the reply. “He says he'll be here
directly."
“ Do you deny it?" demanded The Thinking Ma-
chine of the valet.
“I've done nothing," said the valet sullenly.
" I'm going out of here."
Like an infuriated animal he rushed forward.
Hatch and Cabell seized him and bore him to the
floor. There, after a frantic struggle, he was bound
and the other three men sat down to wait for Detec-
tive Mallory. Cabell sank back in his chair with a
perplexed frown on his face. From time to time he
glanced at Jean. The flush of anger which had been
on the valet's face was gone now; instead there was
the pallor of fear.
tell us ? ” pleaded Cabell impatiently.
When Detective Mallory comes and takes his
prisoner," said The Thinking Machine.
Ten minutes later they heard a quick step in the
hall outside and Hatch opened the door. Detective
Mallory entered and looked from one to another
inquiringly.
That's your prisoner, Mr. Mallory,” said the
scientist, coldly. "I charge him with the murder of
Miss Regnier, whom you were so confident com-
Won't you


96
THE SCARLET THREAD
mitted suicide; I charge him with five attempts on
the life of Weldon Henley, four times by gas pois-
oning, in which Miss Regnier was his accomplice,
and once by shooting. He is the man who shot Mr.
Henley."
The Thinking Machine arose and walked over to
the prostrate man, handing the revolver to Hatch.
He glared down at Jean fiercely.
“Will you tell how you did it or shall I ?." he
demanded.
His answer was a sullen, defiant glare. He turned
and picked up the square mirror which the vaļet had
produced previously.
“That's where the screw was, isn't it?” he asked,
as he indicated a small hole in the frame of the mir-
ror. Jean stared at it and his head sank forward
hopelessly. “ And this is the bath robe you wore,
isn't it? ” he demanded again, and from the suit case
he pulled out the garment with the scarlet stripe.
“I guess you got me all right,” was the sullen
reply.
“ It might be better for
you
if you told the story
then?” suggested The Thinking Machine.
“You know so much about it, tell it yourself."
Very well,” was the calm rejoinder. “I will.
If I make any mistake you will correct me.”
For a long time no one spoke. The Thinking Ma-
chine had dropped back into a chair and was staring
through his thick glasses at the ceiling; his finger
tips were pressed tightly together. At last he began :



E KINNYS
“Will you tell how
you
did it or shall I ?'





THE SCARLET THREAD
97
There are certain trivial gaps which only the
imagination can supply until the matter is gone into
more fully. I should have supplied these myself,
but the arrest of this man, Jean, was precipitated by
the attempted hurried departure of Mr. Cabell for
the South to-night, and I did not have time to go into,
the case to the fullest extent.
Thus, we begin with the fact that there were
several clever attempts made to murder Mr. Henley.
This was by putting out the gas which he habitually
left burning in his room. It happened four times in
all; thus proving that it was an attempt to kill him.
If it had been only once it might have been acci-
dent, even twice it might have been accident, but
the same accident does not happen four times at
the same time of night.
Mr. Henley finally grew to regard the strange
extinguishing of the gas as an effort to kill him, and
carefully locked and barred his door and windows
each night. He believed that some one came into his
apartments and put out the light, leaving the gas
flow. This, of course, was not true. Yet the gas
was put out. How? My first idea, a natural one,
was that it was turned off for an instant at the meter,
when the light would go out, then turned on again.
This, I convinced myself, was not true. Therefore
still the question—how?
It is a fact—I don't know how widely known it
is—but it is a fact that every gas light in this house
might be extinguished at the same time from this


98
THE SCARLET THREAD
room without leaving it. How? Simply by remov-
ing the gas jet tip and blowing into the gas
pipe. It would not leave a jet in the building burn-
ing. It is due to the fact that the lung power is
greater than the pressure of the gas in the pipes, and
forces it out.
“ Thus we have the method employed to extinguish
the light in Mr. Henley's rooms, and all the barred
and locked doors and windows would not stop it.
At the same time it threatened the life of every other
person in the house that is, every other person who
used gas. It was probably for this reason that the
attempt was always made late at night, I should say
three or four o'clock. That's when it was done,
isn't it?” he asked suddenly of the valet.
Staring at The Thinking Machine in open-
mouthed astonishment the valet nodded his acquies-
cence before he was fully aware of it.
“Yes, that's right,” The Thinking Machine re-
sumed complacently. “This was easily found out-
comparatively. The next question was how was a
watch kept on Mr. Henley? It would have done no
good to extinguish the gas before he was asleep, or
to have turned it on when he was not in his rooms.
It might have led to a speedy discovery of just how
the thing was done.
“There's a spring lock on the door of Mr. Hen-
ley's apartment. Therefore it would have been im-
possible for anyone to peep through the keyhole.
There are no cracks through which one might see.


THE SCARLET THREAD
99
How was this watch kept? How was the plotter to
satisfy himself positively of the time when Mr. Hen-
ley was asleep? How was it the gas was put out at
no time of the score or more nights Mr. Henley him-
self kept watch? Obviously he was watched through
a window.
“No one could climb out on the window ledge and
look into Mr. Henley's apartments. No one could
see into that apartment from the street—that is,
could see whether Mr. Henley was asleep or even in
bed. They could see the light. Watch was kept
with the aid offered by the flagpole, supplemented
with a mirror-this mirror. A screw was driven into
the frame—it has been removed now-it was swung
on the flagpole rope and pulled out to the end of the
pole, facing the building. To a man standing in
the hall window of the third floor it offered pre-
cisely the angle necessary to reflect the interior of
Mr. Henley's suite, possibly even showed him in bed
through a narrow opening in the curtain. There is
no shade on the windows of that suite; heavy cur-
tains instead. Is that right?”
Again the prisoner was surprised into a mute
acquiescence.
“I saw the possibility of these things, and I saw,
too, that at three or four o'clock in the morning it
would be perfectly possible for a person to move
about the
upper
halls of this house without being seen.
If he wore a heavy bath robe, with a hood, say, no one
would recognize him even if he were seen, and be-


100
THE SCARLET THREAD
sides the garb would not cause suspicion. This bath
robe has a hood.
Now, in working the mirror back and forth on
the flagpole at night a tiny scarlet thread was pulled
out of the robe and clung to the rope. I found
this thread; later Mr. Hatch found an identical
thread in these apartments.
Both came from that
bath robe. Plain logic shows that the person who
blew down the gas pipes worked the mirror trick; the
person who worked the mirror trick left the thread;
the thread comes back to the bath robe—that bath
robe there,” he pointed dramatically. “Thus the
person who desired Henley's death was in these
apartments, or had easy access to them."
He paused a moment and there was a tense silence.
A great light was coming to Hatch, slowly but surely.
The brain that had followed all this was unlimited in
possibilities.
“Even before we traced the origin of the crime
to this room,” went on the scientist, quietly now,
attention had been attracted here, particularly to
you, Mr. Cabell. It was through the love affair, of
which Miss Lipscomb was the center. Mr. Hatch
learned that you and Henley had been rivals for
her hand. It was that, even before this scarlet
thread was found, which indicated that you might
have some knowledge of the affair, directly or indi-
rectly.
" You are not a malicious or revengeful man, Mr.
Cabell. But you are hot-tempered-extremely so.


THE SCARLET THREAD
IOI
You demonstrated that just now, when, angry and
not understanding, but feeling that your honor was
at stake, you shot a hole in the floor."
“What?" asked Detective Mallory.
“A little accident,” explained The Thinking Ma-
chine quickly. “Not being a malicious or revenge-
ful man, you are not the man to deliberately go ahead
and make elaborate plans for the murder of Henley.
In a moment of passion you might have killed him—
but never deliberately as the result of premeditation.
Besides you were out of town. Who was then in
these apartments? Who had access to these apart-
ments ? Who might have used your bath robe ? Your
valet, possibly Miss Austin. Which? Now, let's
see how we reached this conclusion which led to the
valet.
Miss Regnier was found dead. It was not sui-
cide. How did I know ? Because she had been
reading with the gas light at its full. If she had been
reading by the gas light, how was it then that it went
out and suffocated her before she could arise and
shut it off? Obviously she must have fallen asleep
over her book and left the light burning.
“If she was in this plot to kill Henley, why did
she light the jet in her room? There might have
been some slight defect in the electric bulb in her
room which she had just discovered. Therefore she
lighted the gas, intending to extinguish it—turn it
off entirely—later. But she fell asleep.
Therefore
when the valet here blew into the pipe, intending to
9


102
THE SCARLET THREAD
kill Mr. Henley, he unwittingly killed the woman
he loved-Miss Regnier. It was perfectly possible,
meanwhile, that she did not know of the attempt
to be made that particular night, although she had
participated in the others, knowing that Henley had
night after night sat up to watch the light in his
rooms.
“The facts, as I knew them, showed no connection
between Miss Regnier and this man at that time-
nor any connection between Miss Regnier and Hen-
ley. It might have been that the person who blew the
gas out of the pipe from these rooms knew nothing
whatever of Miss Regnier, just as he didn't know
who else he might have killed in the building.
“But I had her death and the manner of it. I had
eliminated you, Mr. Cabell. Therefore there re-
mained Miss Austin and the valet. Miss Austin was
eccentric—insane, if you will. Would she have any
motive for killing Henley? I could imagine none.
Love? Probably not. Money? They had nothing
in common on that ground. What? Nothing that
I could see. Therefore, for® che moment, I passed
Miss Austin by, after asking you, Mr. Cabell, if you
were Miss Austin.
“What remained? The valet. Motive? Several
possible ones, one or two probable. He is French,
says he is. Miss Regnier is French. Therefore I
had arrived at the conclusion that they knew each
other, as people of the same nationality will in a
house of this sort. And remember, I had passed by
or


THE SCARLET THREAD
103
Mr. Cabell and Miss Austin, so the valet was the
only one left; he could use the bath robe.
Well, the motive. Frankly that was the only
difficult point in the entire problem-difficult be-
cause there were so many possibilities. And each
possibility that suggested itself suggested also a
woman. Jealousy? There must be a woman. Hate?
Probably a woman. Attempted extortion? With
the aid of a woman. No other motive which would
lead to so elaborate a plot of murder would come
forward. Who was the woman? Miss Regnier.
“ Did Miss Regnier know Henley ? Mr. Hatch
had reason to believe he knew her because of his
actions when informed of her death. Knew her how ?
People of such relatively different planes of life can
know each other—or do know each other-only on
one plane. Henley is a typical young man, fast, I
dare say, and liberal. Perhaps, then, there had been a
liason. When I saw this possibility I had my mo-
tives—all of them-jealousy, hate and possibly
attempted extortion as well.
“What was more possible than Mr. Henley and
Miss Regnier had been acquainted? All liasons are
secret ones. Suppose she had been cast off because
of the engagement to a young woman of Henley's
own level? Suppose she had confided in the valet
here? Do you see? Motives enough for any crime,
however diabolical. The attempts on Henley's life
possibly followed an attempted extortion of money.
The shot which wounded Henley was fired by this


THE SCARLET THREAD
105
It must take great lung power to do a thing like
that,” remarked Detective Mallory.
"You would be amazed to know how easily it is
done,” said the scientist. ' Try it some time."
The Thinking Machine arose and picked up his
hat; Hatch did the same. Then the reporter turned
to Cabell.
“Would you mind telling me why you were so
anxious to get away to-night?” he asked.
“Well, no,” Cabell explained, and there was a
rush of red to his face. "It's because I received a
telegram from Virginia—Miss Lipscomb, in fact.
Some of Henley's past had come to her knowledge
and the telegram told me that the engagement was
broken. On top of this came the information that
Henley had been shot and—I was considerably
agitated.'
The Thinking Machine and Hatch were walking
along the street.
“What did you write in the note you sent to
Cabell that made him start to unpack?” asked the
reporter, curiously.
“There are some things that it wouldn't be well
for everyone to know," was the enigmatic response.
“Perhaps it would be just as well for you to overlook
this little omission."
“Of course, of course," replied the reporter,
wonderingly.


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
I
Here are the facts in the case as they were known in
the beginning to Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van
Dusen, scientist and logician. After hearing a state-
ment of the problem from the lips of its principal he
declared it to be one of the most engaging that had
ever come to his attention, and
But let me begin at the beginning:
The Thinking Machine was in the small labora-
tory of his modest apartments at two o'clock in the
afternoon. Martha, the scientist's only servant, ap-
peared at the door with a puzzled expression on her
wrinkled face.
“A gentleman to see you, sir," she said,
“Name?" inquired The Thinking Machine, with-
out turning
“He-he didn't give it, sir,” she stammered.
“I have told you always, Martha, to ask names of
callers."
“I did ask his name, sir, and—and he said he
didn't know it."
106


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
name.
mọst remarkable position—and I'm not insane.
Don't think that, please. But unless I see some way
out of this amazing predicament I shall be. As it is
now, my nerves have gone; I am not myself.”
'Your story? What is it? How can I help
you?”
“I am lost, hopelessly lost,” the stranger resumed.
“I know neither my home, my business, nor even my
I know nothing whatever of myself or my
life; what it was or what it might have been previous
to four weeks
ago.
I am seeking light on my iden-
tity. Now, if there is any fee-"
Never mind that,” the scientist put in, and he
squinted steadily into the eyes of the visitor. “What
do
you
know? From the time you remember things
tell me all of it."
He sank back into his chair, squinting steadily
upward. The stranger arose, paced back and forth
across the room several times and then dropped into
his chair again.
It's perfectly incomprehensible,” he said.
precisely as if I, full grown, had been born into a
world of which I knew nothing except its language.
The ordinary things, chairs, tables and such things,
are perfectly familiar, but who I am, where I came
from, why I came -of these I have no idea. I will
tell you just as my impressions came to me when I
awoke one morning, four weeks ago.
was eight or nine o'clock, I
suppose.
in a room. I knew instantly it was a hotel, but had
" It's
It
I
was


110
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
Any jewelry?”
“These cuff buttons,” and the stranger exhibited
a pair which he drew from his pocket.
" Go on.'
“I finally finished dressing and went down to the
office. It was my purpose to find out the name of
the hotel and who I was. I knew I could learn some
of this from the hotel register without attracting any
attention or making anyone think I was insane. I
had noted the number of my room. It was twenty-
seven.
“I looked over the hotel register casually. I saw
I was at the Hotel Yarmouth in Boston. I looked
carefully down the pages until I came to the number
of my room. Opposite this number was a name—
John Doane, but where the name of the city should
have been there was only a dash.'
"You realize that it is perfectly possible that
John Doane is your name?” asked The Thinking
Machine.
"Certainly," was the reply. But I have no
recollection of ever having heard it before. This
register showed that I had arrived at the hotel the
night before—or rather that John Doane had ar-
rived and been assigned to Room 27, and I was the
John Doane, presumably. From that moment to
this the hotel people have known me as John Doane,
as have other people whom I have met during the
four weeks since I awoke."
“ Did the handwriting recall nothing?"


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
III
Nothing whatever."
Is it anything like the handwriting you write
now ?
“ Did
mean.
Identical, so far as I can see.”
you
have
any baggage or checks for
baggage?”
“No. All I had was the money and this clothing
I stand in. Of course, since then I have bought
necessities."
Both were silent for a long time and finally the
stranger-Doane-arose and began pacing nervously
again.
That a tailor-made suit?” asked the scientist.
Yes," said Doane, quickly. “I know what you
Tailor-made garments have linen strips
sewed inside the pockets on which are the names of
the manufacturers and the name of the man for
whom the clothes were made, together with the date.
I looked for those. They had been removed, cut
out."
“Ah!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine sud-
denly. “No laundry marks on your linen either,
suppose ?
“No. It was all perfectly new.”
“ Name of the maker on it?"
'No. That had been cut out, too."
Doane was pacing back and forth across the recep-
tion room; the scientist lay back in his chair.
“Do you know the circumstances of your arrival
at the hotel?” he asked at last.
I


II2
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
" Yes. I asked, guardedly eno
nough, you may
be
sure, hinting to the clerk that I had been drunk so as
not to make him think I was insane. He said I came
in about eleven o'clock at night, without any bag-
gage, paid for my room with a one-hundred-dollar
bill, which he changed, registered and went upstairs.
I said nothing that he recalls beyond making a request
for a room.
'The name Doane is not familiar to you?
“No."
“ You can't recall a wife or children?”
“ No."
“Do you speak any foreign language?”
“No."
" Is your mind clear now? Do you remember
things?”
“I remember perfectly every incident since I
awoke in the hotel,” said Doane. “I seem to
remember with remarkable clearness, and somehow
I attach the gravest importance to the most trivial
incidents.'
The Thinking Machine arose and motioned to
Doane to sit down. He dropped back into a seat
wearily. Then the scientist's long, slender fingers
ran lightly, deftly through the abundant black hair
of his visitor. Finally they passed down from the
hair and along the firm jaws; thence they went to the
arms, where they pressed upon good, substantial
muscles. At last the hands, well shaped and white,
were examined minutely. A magnifying glass was


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
113
used to facilitate this examination. Finally The
Thinking Machine stared into the quick-moving,
nervous eyes of the stranger.
Any marks at all on your body?” he asked at
last.
“No,” Doane responded. “I had thought of that
and sought for an hour for some sort of mark.
There's nothing — nothing.” The eyes glittered
a little and finally, in a burst of nervousness, he
struggled to his feet. “My God!” he exclaimed.
“Is there nothing you can do? What is it all, any-
way?"
“Seems to be a remarkable form of aphasia,” re-
plied The Thinking Machine.
“ That's not an
uncommon disease among people whose minds and
nerves are overwrought. You've simply lost yourself
- lost your identity. If it is aphasia, you will recover
in time. When, I don't know."
“And meantime?"
Let me see the money you
found.”
With trembling hands Doane produced a large roll
of bills, principally hundreds, many of them perfectly
new. The Thinking Machine examined them mi-
nutely, and finally made some memoranda on a slip
of
paper.
The
money was then returned to Doane.
Now, what shall I do?" asked the latter.
Don't worry,” advised the scientist. “I'll do
what I can.”
“And tell me who and what I am?"
“Oh, I can find that out all right,” remarked The


114
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
Thinking Machine. “But there's a possibility that
you wouldn't recall even if I told you all about
yourself.”
II
WHEN John Doane of Nowhere—to all practical
purposes—left the home of The Thinking Machine
he bore instructions of divers kinds. First he was to
get a large map of the United States and study it
closely, reading over and pronouncing aloud the
name of every city, town and village he found. After
an hour of this he was to take a city directory and
read over the names, pronouncing them aloud as he
did so. Then he was to make out a list of the various
professions and higher commercial pursuits, and pro-
nounce these. All these things were calculated, ob-
viously, to arouse the sleeping brain. After Doane
had
gone The Thinking Machine called
up Hutchin-
son Hatch, reporter, on the 'phone.
“Come up immediately," he requested. “There's
something that will interest you."
“A mystery?” Hatch inquired, eagerly.
One of the most engaging problems that has ever
come to my attention," replied the scientist.
It was only a question of a few minutes before
Hatch was ushered in. He was a living interrogation
point, and repressed a rush of questions with a dis-
tinct effort. The Thinking Machine finally told what
he knew


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
115
"Now it seems to be," said The Thinking Ma-
chine, and he emphasized the “ seems," " it seems to
be a case of aphasia. You know, of course, what
that is. The man simply doesn't know himself. I
examined him closely. I went over his head for a
sign of a possible depression, or abnormality. It
didn't appear. I examined his muscles. He has
biceps of great power, is evidently now or has been
athletic. His hands are white, well cared for and
have no marks on them. They are not the hands of
a man who has ever done physical work. The money
in his pocket tends to confirm the fact that he is not
of that sphere.
“ Then what is he? Lawyer? Banker? Finan-
cier? What? He might be either, yet he impressed
me as being rather of the business than the profes-
sional school. He has a good, square-cut jaw—the
jaw of a fighting man—and his poise gives one the
impression that whatever he has been doing he has
been foremost in it. Being foremost in it, he would
naturally drift to a city, a big city. He is typically a
city man.
“Now, please, to aid me, communicate with your
correspondents in the large cities and find if such a
name as John Doane appears in any directory. Is
he at home now? Has he a family? All about him.”
“Do you believe that John Doane is his name ? ”
asked the reporter.
“No reason why it shouldn't be," said The Think-
ing Machine. “Yet it might not be."


116
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
'How about inquiries in this city?'
'He can't well be a local man,” was the reply.
“He has been wandering about the streets for four
weeks, and if he had lived here he would have met
some one who knew him."
'But the money?".
“ I'll probably be able to locate him through
that,” said The Thinking Machine. “ The matter
is not at all clear to me now, but it occurs to me that
he is a man of consequence, and that it was possibly
necessary for some one to get rid of him for a time.'
Well, if it's plain aphasia, as you say,” the re-
porter put in, “it seems rather difficult to imagine
that the attack came at a moment when it was neces-
sary to get rid of him."
"I
I say it seems like aphasia,” said the scientist,
crustily. “There are known drugs which will pro-
duce the identical effect if properly administered."
Oh," said Hatch. He was beginning to see.
"There is one drug particularly, made in India,
and not unlike hasheesh. In a case of this kind any-
thing is possible. To-morrow I shall ask you to take
Mr. Doane down through the financial district, as
an experiment. When you go there I want you par-
ticularly to get him to the sound of the 'ticker.' It
will be an interesting experiment."
The reporter went away and The Thinking Ma-
chine sent a telegram to the Blank National Bank of
Butte, Montana:
“To whom did you issue hundred-dollar bills,
66


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
117
map
series B, numbering 846380 to 846395 inclusive?
Please answer."
It was ten o'clock next day when Hatch called on
The Thinking Machine. There he was introduced
to John Doane, the man who was lost. The Think-
ing Machine was asking questions of Mr. Doane
when Hatch was ushered in.
Did the recall nothing?"
Nothing."
“Montana, Montana, Montana," the scientist
repeated monotonously;
monotonously; “think of it. Butte,
Montana.”
Doane shook his head hopelessly, sadly.
“Cowboy, cowboy. Did you ever see a cowboy?”
Again the head shake.
Coyote—something like a wolf-coyote. Don't
you recall ever having seen one?”
“ I'm afraid it's hopeless,” remarked the other.
There was a note of more than ordinary irritation
in The Thinking Machine's voice when he turned to
Hatch.
“Mr. Hatch, will you walk through the financial
district with Mr. Doane?” he asked.
to the places I suggested."
So it came to pass that the reporter and Doane
went out together, walking through the crowded,
hurrying, bustling financial district. The first place
visited was a private room where market quotations
were displayed on a blackboard. Mr. Doane was
interested, but the scene seemed to suggest nothing.
“ Please go


118
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
He looked upon it all as any stranger might have
done. After a time they passed out. Suddenly a
man came running toward them-evidently a broker.
“What's the matter?" asked another.
“Montana copper's gone to smash,” was the reply.
Copper! Copper!” gasped Doane suddenly.
Hatch looked around quickly at his companion.
Doane's face was a study. On it was half realiza-
tion and a deep perplexed wrinkle, a glimmer even
of excitement.
Copper!” he repeated.
“Does the word mean anything to you?” asked
Hatch quickly. Copper-metal, you know."
Copper, copper, copper," the other repeated.
Then, as Hatch looked, the queer expression faded;
there came again utter hopelessness.
There are many men with powerful names who
operate in the Street—some of them in copper.
Hatch led Doane straight to the office of one of these
men and there introduced him to a partner in the
business.
“We want to talk about copper a little,” Hatch
explained, still eying his companion.
“Do you want to buy or sell ? " asked the broker.
“Sell,” said Doane suddenly. “Sell, sell, sell
copper. That's it-copper.”
He turned to Hatch, stared at him dully a mo-
ment, a deathly pallor came over his face, then, with
upraised hands, fell senseless.


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
ng
III
STILL unconscious, the man of mystery was removed
to the home of The Thinking Machine and there
stretched out on a sofa. The Thinking Machine was
bending over him, this time in his capacity of physi-
cian, making an examination. Hatch stood by, look-
ing on curiously.
“I never saw anything like it,” Hatch remarked.
“He just threw up his hands and collapsed. He
hasn't been conscious since."
“It may be that when he comes to he will have
recovered his memory, and in that event he will have
absolutely no recollection whatever of you and me,"
explained The Thinking Machine.
Doane moved a little at last, and under a stimulant
the color began to creep back into his pallid face.
“ Just what was said, Mr. Hatch, before he col-
lapsed?" asked the scientist.
Hatch explained, repeating the conversation as he
remembered it.
And he said 'sell,' ?”mused The Thinking Ma-
chine. “In other words, he thinks—or imagines he
knows-that copper is to drop. I believe the first
remark he heard was that copper had gone to smash
-down, I presume that means ?”
“Yes,” the reporter replied.
Half an hour later John Doane sat up on the
couch and looked about the room.


120
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
“Ah, Professor," he remarked. “I fainted,
didn't I?"
The Thinking Machine was disappointed because
his patient had not recovered memory with con-
sciousness. The remark showed that he was still in
the same mental condition—the man who was lost.
“Sell copper, sell, sell, sell,” repeated The Think-
ing Machine, commandingly.
“Yes, yes, sell," was the reply.
The reflection of some great mental struggle was
on Doane's face; he was seeking to recall something
which persistently eluded him.
Copper, copper," the scientist repeated, and he
exhibited a penny.
“Yes, copper,” said Doane. “I know. A penny.
Why did you say sell copper ? ”
“I don't know," was the
weary reply.
It seemed
to be an unconscious act entirely. I don't know."
He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously and
sat for a long time dully staring at the floor. The
fight for memory was a dramatic one.
“ It seemed to me," Doane explained after awhile,
“that the word copper touched some responsive
chord in my memory, then it was lost again. Some
time in the past, I think, I must have had something
to do with copper.
“Yes," said The Thinking Machine, and he
rubbed his slender fingers briskly. “Now you are
coming around again.
His remarks were interrupted by the appearance


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
121
of Martha at the door with a telegram. The Think-
ing Machine opened it hastily. What he saw per-
plexed him again.
Dear me! Most extraordinary!” he exclaimed.
What is it?" asked Hatch, curiously.
The scientist turned to Doane again.
“Do you happen to remember Preston Bell?” he
demanded, emphasizing the name explosively.
“Preston Bell?” the other repeated, and again
the mental struggle was apparent on his face.“ Pres-
ton Bell!"
“Cashier of the Blank National Bank of Butte,
Montana ? " urged the other, still in an emphatic
tone. “ Cashier Bell ?”
He leaned forward eagerly and watched the face
of his patient; Hatch unconsciously did the same.
Once there was almost realization, and seeing it
The Thinking Machine sought to bring back full
memory.
“Bell, cashier, copper," he repeated, time after
time.
The flash of realization which had been on
Doane's face passed, and there came infinite weari-
ness—the weariness of one who is ill.
“I don't remember," he said at last. “I'm very
tired.”
“Stretch out there on the couch and go to sleep,”
advised The Thinking Machine, and he arose to
arrange a pillow.
Sleep will do you more good
than anything else right now.
But before you
lie


I22
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
down, let me have, please, a few of those hundred-
dollar bills
you
found."
Doane extended the roll of money, and then slept
like a child. It was uncanny to Hatch, who had been
a deeply interested spectator.
The Thinking Machine ran over the bills and
finally selected fifteen of them-bills that were new
and crisp. They were of an issue by the Blank
National Bank of Butte, Montana. The Thinking
Machine stared at the money closely, then handed
it to Hatch.
“Does that look like counterfeit to you ?” he
asked.
“ Counterfeit ? ” gasped Hatch. “ Counterfeit?"
he repeated. He took the bills and examined them.
So far as I can see they seem to be good,” he went
on, though I have never had enough experience
with one-hundred-dollar bills to qualify as an ex-
pert.'
“Do you know an expert?”
"Yes."
“See him immediately. Take fifteen bills and ask
him to pass on them, each and every one. Tell him
you have reason—excellent reason—to believe that
they are counterfeit. When he gives his opinion
come back to me.'
Hatch went away with the money in his pocket.
Then The Thinking Machine wrote another tele-
gram, addressed to President Bell, cashier of the
Butte Bank. It was as follows:


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
123
“ Please send me full details of the manner in
which money previously described was lost, with
names of all persons who might have had any knowl-
edge of the matter. Highly important to your bank
and to justice. Will communicate in detail on receipt
of your answer.
Then, while his visitor slept, The Thinking Ma-
chine quietly removed his shoes and examined them.
He found, almost worn away, the name of the maker.
This was subjected to close scrutiny under the magni-
fying glass, after which The Thinking Machine arose .
with a perceptible expression of relief on his face.
Why didn't I think of that before ?” he de-
manded of himself.
Then other telegrams went into the West. One
was to a customs shoemaker in Denver, Colorado:
“ To what financier or banker have you sold within
three months a pair of shoes, Senate brand, calfskin
blucher, number eight, D last? Do you know John
Doane?
A second telegram went to the Chief of Police of
Denver. It was:
“Please wire if any financier, banker or business
man has been out of your city for five weeks or more,
presumably on business trip. Do you know John
Doane?"
.
Then The Thinking Machine sat down to wait.
At last the door bell rang and Hatch entered.
“Well?" demanded the scientist, impatiently.


124
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
“The expert declares those are not counterfeit,"
said Hatch.
Now The Thinking Machine was surprised. It
was shown clearly by the quick lifting of the eye-
brows, by the sudden snap of his jaws, by a quick
forward movement of the yellow head.
"Well, well, well!” he exclaimed at last. Then
again: Well, well!”
What is it?"
“See here," and The Thinking Machine took the
hundred-dollar bills in his own hands. “ These bills,
perfectly new and crisp, were issued by the Blank
National Bank of Butte, and the fact that they are
in proper sequence would indicate that they were
issued to one individual at the same time, probably
recently. There can be no doubt of that. The num-
bers run from 846380 to 846395, all series B.
“I see," said Hatch.
“Now read that," and the scientist extended to
the reporter the telegram Martha had brought in
just before Hatch had gone away. Hatch read this:
“Series B, hundred-dollar bills 846380 to 846395
issued by this bank are not in existence. Were de-
stroyed by fire, together with twenty-seven others of
the same series. Government has been asked to grant
permission to reissue these numbers.
PRESTON Bell, Cashier."
The reporter looked up with a question in his eyes.
“It means," said The Thinking Machine, “that


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
125
this man is either a thief or the victim of some sort
of financial jugglery."
In that case is he what he pretends to be a man
who doesn't know himself?” asked the reporter.
" That remains to be seen."
IV
Event followed event with startling rapidity during
the next few hours. First came a message from the
Chief of Police of Denver. No capitalist or finan-
cier of consequence was out of Denver at the moment,
so far as his men could ascertain. Longer search
might be fruitful. He did not know John Doane.
One John Doane in the directory was a teamster.
Then from the Blank National Bank came another
telegram signed “Preston Bell, Cashier," reciting
the circumstances of the disappearance of the hun-
dred-dollar bills. The Blank National Bank had
moved into a new structure; within a week there had
been a fire which destroyed it. Several packages of
money, including one package of hundred-dollar bills,
among them those specified by The Thinking Ma-
chine, had been burned. President Harrison of the
bank immediately made affidavit to the Government
that these bills were left in his office.
The Thinking Machine studied this telegram care-
fully and from time to time glanced at it while Hatch
made his report.
This was as to the work of the
correspondents who had been seeking John Doane.


126
MAN
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
They found many men of the name and reported at
length on each. One by one The Thinking Machine
heard the reports, then shook his head.
Finally he reverted again to the telegram, and
after consideration sent another--this time to the
Chief of Police of Butte. In it he asked these
questions:
“ Has there ever been any financial trouble in
Blank National Bank? Was there an embezzlement
or shortage at any time? What is reputation of
President Harrison? What is reputation of Cashier
Bell? Do you know John Doane ? "
It was
In due course of events the answer came.
brief and to the point. It said:
.“ Harrison recently embezzled $175,000 and dis-
appeared. Bell's reputation excellent; now out of
Don't know John Doane. If you have any
trace of Harrison, wire quick.'
This answer came just after Doane awoke, appar-
ently greatly refreshed, but himself again—that is,
himself in so far as he was still lost. For an hour
The Thinking Machine pounded him with questions
-questions of all sorts, serious, religious and at
times seemingly silly. They apparently aroused no
trace of memory, save when the name Preston Bell
was mentioned; then there was the strange, puzzled
expression on Doane's face.
“Harrison—do you know him ? " asked the scien-


128
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
he saw now a new line of possibilities suddenly re-
vealed. Here was a man who knew Doane as Harry
—and then Pittsburg, too.
“ Last time I saw you was in Pittsburg, wasn't
it?” Manning rattled on, as he led the way into a
nearby café. “By George, that was a stiff game
that
night! Remember that jack full I held? It cost me
nineteen hundred dollars,” he added, ruefully.
* Yes, I remember,” said Doane, but Hatch
knew that he did not. And meanwhile a thousand
questions were surging through the reporter's
brain.
“Poker hands as expensive as that are liable to
be long remembered,” remarked Hatch, casually.
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years, wasn't it, Harry?” asked Man-
ning.
“ All of that, I should say," was the reply.
“Twenty hours at the table,” said Manning, and
again he laughed cheerfully.
cheerfully. “I was woozy when
we finished.”
Inside the café they sought out a table in a corner.
No one else was near. When the waiter had gone,
Hatch leaned over and looked Doane straight in the
eyes.
“Shall I ask some questions? " he inquired.
· Yes, yes,” said the other eagerly.
“What—what is it?" asked Manning.
“It's a remarkably strange chain of circum-
stances,” said Hatch, in explanation.
"This man


THE MAN WHO WAS. LOST
129
whom you call Harry, we know as John Doane.
What is his real name? Harry what?”
Manning stared at the reporter for a moment in
amazement, then gradually a smile came to his lips.
What are you trying to do?” he asked. “Is
this a joke?”
“No, my God, man, can't you see?” exclaimed
Doane, fiercely. “I'm ill, sick, something. I've lost
my memory, all of my past. I don't remember any-
thing about myself. What is my name?"
“Well, by George!” exclaimed Manning. “By
George! I don't believe I know your full name.
Harry–Harry—what?”
He drew from his pocket several letters and half
a dozen scraps of paper and ran over them. Then
he looked carefully through a worn notebook.
“I don't know," he confessed. “I had your name
and address in an old notebook, but I suppose I
burned it. I remember, though, I met you in the
Lincoln Club in Pittsburg three years ago. I called
you Harry because everyone was calling everyone
else by his first name. Your last name made no im-
pression on me at all. By George!” he concluded,
in a new burst of amazement.
What were the circumstances, exactly? " asked
Hatch.
“ I'm a traveling man,” Manning explained. “I
go everywhere. A friend gave me a card to the
Lincoln Club in Pittsburg and I went there. There
were five or six of us playing poker, among them Mr.


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
131
way he could.
“Not that I recall. A man doesn't usually speak
of his family at a poker table.”
Do you remember the exact date or the month?”
“I think it was in January or February possibly,”
was the reply. “ It was bitterly cold and the snow
was all smoked up. Yes, I'm positive it was in Janu-
ary,
three
years ago.
After awhile the men separated. Manning was
stopping at the Hotel Teutonic and willingly gave
his name and permanent address to Hatch, explain-
ing at the same time that he would be in the city for
several days and was perfectly willing to help in any
He took also the address of The
Thinking Machine.
From the café Hatch and Doane returned to the
scientist. They found him with two telegrams
spread out on a table before him. Briefly Hatch told
the story of the meeting with Manning, while Doane
sank down with his head in his hands. The Think-
ing Machine listened without comment.
“Here,” he said, at the conclusion of the recital,
and he offered one of the telegrams to Hatch. “I
got the name of a shoemaker from Mr. Doane's
shoe and wired to him in Denver, asking if he had a
record of the sale. This is the answer. Read it
aloud.”
Hatch did so.
“Shoes such as described made nine weeks ago for
Preston Bell, cashier Blank National Bank of Butte.
Don't know John Doane."


132
THE MAN WHO WAS
LOST
“Well—what-” Doane began, bewildered.
" It means that you are Preston Bell,” said Hatch,
emphatically.
No," said The Thinking Machine, quickly. “It
means that there is only a strong probability of it.”
re-
The door bell rang. After a moment Martha
appeared.
A lady to see you, sir," she said.
“Her name?”
“Mrs. John Doane."
Gentlemen, kindly step into the next room,
quested The Thinking Machine.
Together Hatch and Doane passed through the
door. There was an expression of—of—no man
may say what—on Doane's face as he went.
Show her in here, Martha," instructed the
scientist.
There was a rustle of silk in the hall, the curtains
on the door were pulled apart quickly and a richly
gowned woman rushed into the room.
“My husband? Is he here?” she demanded,
breathlessly. “I went to the hotel; they said he came
here for treatment. Please, please, is he here?”
“A moment, madam," said The Thinking Ma-
chine. He stepped to the door through which Hatch
and Doane had gone, and said something. One of
them appeared in the door. It was Hutchinson
Hatch.


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
133
John, John, my darling husband," and the
woman flung her arms about Hatch's neck. “Don't
you know me?"
With blushing face Hatch looked over her shoul-
der into the eyes of The Thinking Machine, who
stood briskly rubbing his hands. Never before in
his long acquaintance with the scientist had Hatch
seen him smile.
V.
FOR a time there was silence, broken only by sobs, as
the woman clung frantically to Hatch, with her face
buried on his shoulder. Then:
“Don't you remember me?” she asked again and
again. “Your wife? Don't you remember me?
Hatch could still see the trace of a smile on the
scientist's face, and said nothing.
“You are positive this gentleman is your hus-
band? ” inquired The Thinking Machine, finally.
“Oh, I know," the woman sobbed. “Oh, John,
don't
you
remember me?" She drew away a little
and looked deeply into the reporter's eyes.
you remember me, John ? "
“Can't say that I ever saw you before," said
Hatch, truthfully enough. “1-1-fact is-
“Mr. Doane's memory is wholly gone now,” ex-
plained The Thinking Machine.
Meanwhile, per-
haps you would tell me something about him. He is
my patient. I am particularly interested."
“ Don't


134
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
The voice was soothing; it had lost for the moment
its perpetual irritation. The woman sat down beside
Hatch. Her face, pretty enough in a bold sort of
way, was turned to The Thinking Machine inquir-
ingly. With one hand she stroked that of the re-
porter.
“Where are you from?” began the scientist. "I
mean where is the home of John Doane?”
“In Buffalo," she replied, glibly. “ Didn't he
even remember that?”
“And what's his business?"
“ His health has been bad for some time and re-
cently he gave up active business," said the woman.
“Previously he was connected with a bank."
“When did you see him last ? ”
“Six weeks ago. He left the house one day and
I have never heard from him since. I had Pinkerton
men searching and at last they reported he was at the
Yarmouth Hotel. I came on immediately. And
now we shall go back to Buffalo.” She turned to
Hatch with a languishing glance.
" Shall we not,
dear?"
Whatever Professor Van Dusen thinks best,"
was the equivocal reply.
Slowly the glimmer of amusement was passing out
of the squint eyes of The Thinking Machine; as
Hatch looked he saw a hardening of the lines of the
mouth. There was an explosion coming. He knew
it. Yet when the scientist spoke his voice was more
velvety than ever.


THE 135
MAN MAN
WHO WAS LOST
Mrs. Doane, do you happen to be acquainted
with a drug which produces temporary loss of mem-
ory?”
She stared at him, but did not lose her self-
possession.
"No," she said finally. Why?"
“You know, of course, that this man is not your
husband?
This time the question had its effect. The woman
arose suddenly, stared at the two men, and her face
went white.
“Not?—not ?—what do you mean?”
“I mean," and the voice reassumed its tone of
irritation, “I mean that I shall send for the police
and give you in their charge unless you tell me the
truth about this affair. Is that perfectly clear to
you?”
The woman's lips were pressed tightly together.
She saw that she had fallen into some sort of a trap;
her gloved hands were clenched fiercely; the pallor
faded and a flush of anger came.
“Further, for fear you don't quite follow me even
now,” explained The Thinking Machine, “I will
say that I know all about this copper deal of which
this so-called John Doane was the victim. I know his
condition now. If you tell the truth you may escape
prison—if you don't, there is a long term, not only
for
you, but for your fellow-conspirators. Now will
you talk ? "
“No," said the woman. She arose as if to go out.


136. THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
“ Next
“Never mind that,” said The Thinking Machine.
“ You had better stay where you are. You will be
locked up at the proper moment. Mr. Hatch, please
'phone for Detective Mallory."
Hatch arose and passed into the adjoining room.
“You tricked me," the woman screamed suddenly,
fiercely.
“Yes," the other agreed, complacently.
time be sure you know your own husband. Mean-
while where is Harrison ?"
Not another word,” was the quick reply.
Very well,” said the scientist, calmly. “Detec-
tive Mallory will be here in a few minutes. Mean-
while I'll lock this door."
“ You have no right _” the woman began.
Without heeding the remark, The Thinking Ma-
chine passed into the adjoining room.
There for
half an hour he talked earnestly to Hatch and Doane.
At the end of that time he sent a telegram to the
manager of the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg, as follows:
“Does your visitors' book show any man, regis-
tered there in the month of January three years ago,
whose first name is Harry or Henry? If so, please
wire name and description, also name of man whose
guest he was."
This telegram was dispatched. A few minutes
later the door bell rang and Detective Mallory
entered.
What is it?” he inquired.


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
137
was the
“ A prisoner for you in the next room,
reply. “A woman. I charge her with conspiracy
to defraud a man who for the present we will call
John Doane. That may or may not be his name."
" What do you know about it?" asked the
detective.
A great deal now-more after awhile. I shall
tell you then. Meanwhile take this woman. You
gentlemen, I should suggest, might go out somewhere
this evening. If you drop by afterwards there may
be an answer to a few telegrams which will make this
matter clear."
Protestingly the mysterious woman was led away
by Detective Mallory; and Doane and Hatch fol-
lowed shortly after. The next act of The Thinking
Machine was to write a telegram addressed to Mrs.
Preston Bell, Butte, Montana. Here it is:
* Your husband suffering temporary mental trou-
ble here. Can you come on immediately? Answer."
“ Show
When the messenger boy came for the telegram
he found a man on the stoop. The Thinking Ma-
chine received the telegram, and the man, who gave
to Martha the name of Manning, was announced.
Manning, too,” mused the scientist.
him in."
“I don't know if you know why I am here," ex-
plained Manning
“Oh, yes,” said the scientist. “You have remem-
bered Doane's name. What is it, please ? "


138
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
Manning was too frankly surprised to answer
and only stared at the scientist.
“Yes, that's right,” he said finally, and he smiled.
“His name is Pillsbury. I recall it now.”
And what made you recall it ? ”
“I noticed an advertisement in a magazine with
the name in large letters. It instantly came to me
that that was Doane's real name."
Thanks,” remarked the scientist. “ And the
woman who is she?
“What woman?” asked Manning.
“Never mind, then. I am deeply obliged for your
information. I don't suppose you know anything
else about it?"
No," said Manning. He was a little bewildered,
and after awhile went away.
For an hour or more The Thinking Machine sat
with finger tips pressed together staring at the ceil-
ing. His meditations were interrupted by Martha.
Another telegram, sir."
The Thinking Machine took it eagerly. It was
from the manager of the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg:
“Henry C. Carney, Harry Meltz, Henry Blake,
Henry W. Tolman, Harry Pillsbury, Henry Calvert
and Henry Louis Smith all visitors to club in month
you name. Which do you want to learn more
about?"
It took more than an hour for The Thinking
Machine to establish long distance connection by


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
139
'phone with Pittsburg. When he had finished talk-
ing he seemed satisfied.
Now,” he mused. “The answer from Mrs.
Preston.”
It was nearly midnight when that came. Hatch
and Doane had returned from a theater and were
talking to the scientist when the telegram was
brought in.
Anything important?” asked Doane, anxiously.
“Yes," said the scientist, and he slipped a finger
beneath the flap of the envelope. “It's clear now.
It was an engaging problem from first to last, and
now
He opened the telegram and glanced at it; then
with bewilderment on his face and mouth slightly
open he sank down at the table and leaned forward
with his head on his arms. The message fluttered to
the table and Hatch read this:
“Man in Boston can't be my husband. He is now
in Honolulu. I received cablegram from him to-day.
“MRS. PRESTON BELL.”
VI
It was thirty-six hours later that the three men met
again. The Thinking Machine had abruptly dis-
missed Hatch and Doane the last time.
The re-
porter knew that something wholly unexpected had
happened. He could only conjecture that this had
to do with Preston Bell. When the three met again


140
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
it was in Detective Mallory's office at police head-
quarters. The mysterious woman who had claimed
Doane for her husband was present, as were Mallory,
Hatch, Doane and The Thinking Machine.
“Has this woman given any name?” was the
scientist's first question.
“Mary Jones,” replied the detective, with a grin.
And address?”
"No."
" Is her picture in the Rogues' Gallery ? '
No. I looked carefully."
Anybody called to ask about her ?”
“A man-yes. That is, he didn't ask about her-
he merely asked some general questions, which now
we believe were to find out about her."
The Thinking Machine arose and walked over to
the woman. She looked up at him defiantly.
“There has been a mistake made, Mr. Mallory,"
said the scientist. “It's my fault entirely. Let this
woman go. I am sorry to have done her so grave an
injustice.”
Instantly the woman was on her feet, her face
radiant. A look of disgust crept into Mallory's face.
“I can't let her go now without arraignment,” the
detective growled. “It ain't regular.”
“You must let her go, Mr. Mallory," commanded
The Thinking Machine, and over the woman's shoul-
der the detective saw an astonishing thing. The
Thinking Machine winked. It was a decided, long,
pronounced wink.


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
-141
“Oh, all right,” he said, “but it ain't regular at
that."
The woman passed out of the room hurriedly, her
silken skirts rustling loudly. She was free' again.
Immediately she disappeared The Thinking Ma-
chine's entire manner changed.
“Put your best man to follow her," he directed
rapidly. “Let him go to her home and arrest the
man who is with her as her husband. Then bring
them both back here, after searching their rooms for
money.'
“Why—what—what is all this?” demanded Mal-
lory, amazed.
“The man who inquired for her, who is with her,
is wanted for a $175,000 embezzlement in Butte,
Montana. Don't let your man lose sight of her."
The detective left the room hurriedly. Ten min-
utes later he returned to find The Thinking Machine
leaning back in his chair with eyes upturned. Hatch
and Doane were waiting, both impatiently.
“Now, Mr. Mallory," said the scientist, “I shall
try to make this matter as clear to you as it is to me.
By the time I finish I expect your man will be back
here with this woman and the embezzler. His name
is Harrison; I don't know hers. I can't believe she is
Mrs. Harrison, yet he has, I suppose, a wife. But
here's the story. It is the chaining together
of fact after fact; a necessary logical sequence to
a series of incidents, which are, separately, deeply
puzzling."


142
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
The detective lighted a cigar and the others dis-
posed themselves comfortably to listen.
This gentleman came to me,” began The Think-
ing Machine, “with a story of loss of memory. He
told me that he knew neither his name, home, occu-
pation, nor anything whatever about himself. At
the moment it struck me as a case for a mental expert;
still I was interested. It seemed to be a remarkable
case of aphasia, and I so regarded it until he told me
that he had $10,000 in bills, that he had no watch,
that everything which might possibly be of value in
establishing his identity had been removed from his
clothing. This included even the names of the ma-
kers of his linen. That showed intent, deliberation.
“ Then I knew it could not be aphasia. That dis-
ease strikes a man suddenly as he walks the street, as
he sleeps, as he works, but never gives any desire to
remove traces of one's identity. On the contrary, a
man is still apparently sound mentally—he has merely
forgotten something—and usually his first desire is
to find out who he is. This gentleman had that de-
sire, and in trying to find some clew he showed a mind
capable of grasping at every possible opportunity.
Nearly every question I asked had been anticipated.
Thus "I recognized that he must be a more than
usually astute man.
“But if not aphasia, what was it? What caused
his condition? A drug? I remembered that there
was such a drug in India, not unlike hasheesh. There-
fore for the moment I assumed a drug. It gave me a


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
143
working basis. Then what did I have? A man of
striking mentality who was the victim of some sort
of plot, who had been drugged until he lost himself,
and in that way disposed of. The handwriting
might be the same, for handwriting is rarely affected
by a mental disorder; it is a physical function.
“So far, so good. I examined his head for a pos-
sible accident. Nothing. His hands were white and
in no way calloused. Seeking to reconcile the fact
that he had been a man of strong mentality, with all
other things a financier or banker, occurred to me.
The same things might have indicated a lawyer, but
the poise of this man, his elaborate care in dress, all
these things made me think him the financier rather
than the lawyer.
“Then I examined some money he had when he
awoke. Fifteen or sixteen of the hundred-dollar
bills were new and in sequence. They were issued by
a national bank. To whom? The possibilities were
that the bank would have a record. I wired, asking
about this, and also asked Mr. Hatch to have his
correspondents make inquiries in various cities for a
John Doane. It was not impossible that John Doane
was his name. Now I believe it will be safe for me
to say that when he registered at the hotel he was
drugged, his own name slipped his mind, and he
signed John Doane—the first name that came to him.
That is not his name.
“While waiting an answer from the bank I tried
to arouse his memory by referring to things in the


144
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
West. It appeared possible that he might have
brought the money from the West with him. Then,
still with the idea that he was a financier, I sent him
to the financial district. There was a result. The
word 'copper' aroused him so that he fainted after
shouting, 'Sell copper, sell, sell, sell.'
“In a way my estimate of the man was confirmed.
He was or had been in a copper deal, selling copper
in the market, or planning to do so. I know nothing
of the intricacies of the stock market. But there
came instantly to me the thought that a man who
would faint away in such a case must be vitally inter-
ested as well as ill. Thus I had a financier, in a cop-
per deal, drugged as result of a conspiracy. Do you
follow me, Mr. Mallory?”
Sure," was the reply.
At this point I received a telegram from the
Butte bank telling me that the hundred-dollar bills
I asked about had been burned. This telegram was
signed ‘Preston Bell, Cashier.' If that were true,
the bills this man had were counterfeit. There were
no ifs about that. I asked him if he knew Preston
Bell. It was the only name of a person to arouse
him in any way. A man knows his own name better
than anything in the world. Therefore was it his?
For a moment I presumed it was.
“Thus the case stood: Preston Bell, cashier of the
Butte bank, had been drugged, was the victim of a
conspiracy, which was probably a part of some great
move in copper. But if this man were Preston Bell,


THE MAN WHO WAS LOSTI..
how came the signature there ? Part of the office
regulation ? It happens hundreds of times that a
name is so used, particularly on telegrams.
'Well, this man who was lost-Doane, or Pres-
ton Bell—went to sleep in my apartments. At that
time I believed it fully possible that he was a coun-
terfeiter, as the bills were supposedly burned, and
sent Mr. Hatch to consult an expert. I also wired
for details of the fire loss in Butte and names of per-
sons who had any knowledge of the matter. This
done, I removed and examined this gentleman's shoes
for the name of the maker. I found it. The shoes
were of fine quality, probably made to order for
him.
“Remember, at this time I believed this gentleman
to be Preston Bell, for reasons I have stated. I
wired to the maker or retailer to know if he had a
record of a sale of the shoes, describing them in
detail, to any financier or banker. I also wired to
the Denver police to know if any financier or banker
had been away from there for four or five weeks.
Then came the somewhat startling information,
through Mr. Hatch, that the hundred-dollar bills
were genuine. That answer meant that Preston Bell
-as I had begun to think of him—was either a thief
or the victim of some sort of financial conspiracy."
During the silence which followed every eye was
turned on the man who was lost-Doane or Preston
Bell. He sat staring straight ahead of him with
hands nervously clenched. On his face was written


146
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
the sign of a desperate mental struggle. He was still
trying to recall the past.
“Then,” The Thinking Machine resumed, “I
heard from the Denver police. There was no lead-
ing financier or banker out of the city so far as they
could learn hurriedly. It was not conclusive, but it
aided me. Also I received another telegram from
Butte, signed Preston Bell, telling me the circum-
stances of the supposed burning of the hundred-
dollar bills. It did not show that they were burned
at all; it was merely an assumption that they had
been. They were last seen in President Harrison's
office."
“Harrison, Harrison, Harrison," repeated Doane.
"Vaguely I could see the possibility of something
financially wrong in the bank. Possibly Harrison,
even Mr. Bell here, knew of it. Banks do not apply
for permission to reissue bills unless they are positive
of the original loss. Yet here were the bills.
Obviously some sort of jugglery. I wired to the
police of Butte, asking some questions. The answer
was that Harrison had embezzled $175,000 and had
disappeared. Now I knew he had part of the miss-
ing, supposedly burned, bills with him. It was
obvious. Was Bell also a thief?
“ The same telegram said that Mr. Bell's reputa-
tion was of the best, and he was out of the city. That
confirmed my belief that it was an office rule to sign
telegrams with the cashier's name, and further made
me positive that this man was Preston Bell. The


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
147
chain of circumstances was complete. It was two
and two-inevitable result, four.
Now, what was the plot? Something to do with
copper, and there was an embezzlement. Then, still
seeking a man who knew Bell personally, I sent him
out walking with Hatch. I had done so before.
Suddenly another figure came into the mystery—a
confusing one at the moment. This was a Mr. Man-
ning, who knew Doane, or Bell, as Harry-some-
thing; met him in Pittsburg three years ago, in the
Lincoln Club.
“It was just after Mr. Hatch told me of this man
that I received a telegram from the shoemaker in
Denver. It said that he had made a shoe such as I
described within a few months for Preston Bell. I
had asked if a sale had been made to a financier or
banker; I got the name back by wire.
" At this point a woman appeared to claim John
Doane as her husband. With no definite purpose,
save general precaution, I asked Mr. Hatch to see
her first. She imagined he was Doane and embraced
him, calling him John. Therefore she was a fraud.
She did not know John Doane, or Preston Bell, by
sight. Was she acting under the direction of some
one else? If so, whose ? "
There was a pause as The Thinking Machine read-
justed himself in the chair. After a time he went on:
“There are shades of emotion, intuition, call it
what you will, so subtle that it is difficult to express
them in words. As I had instinctively associated


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
149
for some reason, and I could see it in no other light.
It was her purpose to get hold of you and possibly
keep you a prisoner, at least until some gigantic deal
in which copper figured was disposed of. That was
what I surmised.
Then another telegram came from the Lincoln
Club in Pittsburg. The name of Harry Pillsbury
appeared as a visitor in the book in January, three
years ago. It was you—Manning is not the sort of
man to be mistaken—and then there remained only
one point to be solved as I then saw the case. That
was an answer from Mrs. Preston Bell, if there was
a Mrs. Bell. She would know where her husband
was."
Again there was silence. A thousand things were
running through Bell's mind. The story had been
told so pointedly, and was so vitally a part of him,
that semi-recollection was again on his face.
“That telegram said that Preston Bell was in
Honolulu; that the wife had received a cable dispatch
that day. Then, frankly, I was puzzled; so puzzled,
in fact, that the entire fabric I had constructed
seemed to melt away before my eyes. It took me
hours to readjust it. I tried it all over in detail, and
then the theory which would reconcile every fact in
the case was evolved. That theory is right—as right
as that two and two make four. It's logic.”
It was half an hour later when a detective entered
and spoke to Detective Mallory aside.
“ Fine!." said Mallory,
Bring 'em in.”


150
THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
Then there reappeared the woman who had been
a prisoner and a man of fifty years.
“ Harrison !” exclaimed Bell, suddenly. He stag-
gered to his feet with outstretched hands. “Harri-
son! know! I know!"
Good, good, very good,” said The Thinking
Machine.
Bell's nervously twitching hands were reaching for
Harrison's throat when he was pushed aside by
Detective Mallory. He stood pallid for a moment,
then sank down on the floor in a heap. He was
senseless. The Thinking Machine made a hurried
examination.
“Good!” he remarked again. “When he recov-
ers he will remember everything except what has hap-
pened since he has been in Boston. Meanwhile, Mr.
Harrison, we know all about the little affair of the
drug, the battle for new copper workings in Hono-
lulu, and your partner there has been arrested. Your
drug didn't do its work well enough. Have you any-
thing to add?"
The prisoner was silent.
“Did you search his rooms?” asked The Think-
ing Machine of the detective who had made the
double arrest.
“Yes, and found this."
It was a large roll of money. The Thinking Ma-
chine ran over it lightly—$70,000—scanning the
numbers of the bills. At last he held forth half a
dozen. They were among the twenty-seven reported
to have been burned in the bank fire in Butte.


THE MAN WHO WAS LOST
151
Harrison and the woman were led away. Subse-
quently it developed that he had been systematically
robbing the bank of which he was president for
years; was responsible for the fire, at which time he
had evidently expected to make a great haul; and
that the woman was not his wife. Following his
arrest this entire story came out; also the facts of the
gigantic copper deal, in which he had rid himself of
Bell, who was his partner, and had sent another man
to Honolulu in Bell's name to buy up options on
some valuable copper property there. This confed-
erate in Honolulu had sent the cable dispatches
to the wife in Butte. She accepted them without
question.
It was a day or so later that Hatch dropped
in to see The Thinking Machine and asked a few
questions.
“How did Bell happen to have that $10,000?”
“ It was given to him, probably, because it was
safer to have him rambling about the country, not
knowing who he was, than to kill him."
“ And how did he happen to be here ?"
“That question may be answered at the trial.”
And how did it come that Bell was once known
as Harry Pillsbury?”
“Bell is a director in United States Steel, I have
since learned. There was a secret meeting of this
board in Pittsburg three years ago. He went incog.
to attend that meeting and was introduced at the
Lincoln Club as Harry Pillsbury.”
“Oh!" exclaimed Hatch.


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
I
With a little laugh of sheer light-heartedness on her
lips and a twinkle in her blue eyes, Marguerite Mel-
rose bound on a grotesque automobile mask, and
stuffed the last strand of her recalcitrant hair beneath
her veil. The pretty face was hidden from mouth
to brow; and her curls were ruthlessly imprisoned
under a cap held in place by the tightly tied veil.
“It's perfectly hideous, isn't it? ” she demanded
of her companions.
Jack Curtis laughed.
Well," he remarked, quizzically, it's just as
well that we know you are pretty.”
“ We could never discover it as you are now,”
added Charles Reid. Can't see enough of your
face to tell whether you are white or black.”
The girl's red lips were pursed into a pout, which
ungraciously hid her white teeth, as she considered
the matter seriously.
I think I'll take it off,” she said at last.
Don't,” Curtis warned her. “On a good road
The Green Dragon only hits the tall places.”
152


THE AUTO MYSTERY
GREAT GREAT
“Tear your hair off," supplemented Reid. “When
Jack lets her loose it's just a pszzzzt-and wherever
you're going you're there."
“Not on a night as dark'as this? ” protested the
girl, quickly.
“ I've got lights like twin locomotives," Curtis
assured her, smilingly. “It's perfectly safe. Don't
get nervous.
He tied on his own mask with its bleary goggles,
while Reid did the same. The Green Dragon, a low,
gasoline car of racing build, stood panting impa-
tiently, awaiting them at a side door of the hotel.
Curtis assisted Miss Melrose into the front seat and
climbed in beside her, while Reid sat behind in the
tonneau. There was a preparatory quiver, the car
jerked a little and then began to move.
The three persons in it were Marguerite Melrose,
an actress who had attracted attention in the West
five years before by her great beauty and had after-
wards, by her art, achieved a distinct place; Jack
Curtis, a friend since childhood, when both lived in
San Francisco and attended the same school, and
Charles Reid, his chum, son of a mine owner at
Denver.
The unexpected meeting of the three in Boston
had been a source of mutual pleasure. It had been
two years since they had seen one another in Denver,
where Miss Melrose was playing. Now she was in
Boston, pursuing certain vocal studies before return-
ing West for her next season.


154 THE
GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
Reid was in Boston to lay siege to the heart of a
young woman of society, Miss Elizabeth Dow, whom
he first met in San Francisco. She was only nineteen
years old, but despite this he had begun a siege and
his ardor had never cooled, even after Miss Dow
returned East. In Boston, he had heard, she looked
with favor upon another man, Morgan Mason, poor,
but of excellent family, and frantically Reid d
rushed, like Lochinvar out of the West, to find the
rumor true.
Curtis was one who never had anything to do save
seek excitement in a new and novel way. He had
come East with Reid. They had been together con-
stantly since their arrival in Boston. He was of a
different type from Reid in that his wealth was
distinctly a burden, a thing which left him with noth-
ing to do, and opened illimitable possibilities of dissi-
pation. The pace he led was one which caused other
young men to pause and think.
Warm-hearted and perfectly at home with both
Curtis and Reid, Miss Melrose, the actress, fre-
quently took occasion to scold them. It was charm-
ing to be scolded by Miss Melrose, so much so in fact
that it was worth while sinning again. Since she had
appeared on the horizon Curtis had devoted a great
deal of time to her; Reid had his own difficulties
trying to make Miss Dow change her mind.
The Green Dragon with its three passengers ran
slowly down from the Hotel Yarmouth, where Miss
Melrose was stopping, toward the Common, twisting


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
155
and winding tortuously through the crowd of vehi-
cles. It was half-past six o'clock in the evening.
Cut across here to Commonwealth Avenue,'
Miss Melrose suggested. She remembered some-
thing and her bright blue eyes sparkled beneath the
disfiguring mask. 'I know a delightful old-fash-
ioned inn out this way. It would be an ideal place
to stop for supper. I was there once five years ago
when I was in Boston."
“How far?" asked Reid.
“ Fifteen or twenty miles," was the reply.
Right,” said Curtis.
Here we go.'
Soon after they were skimming along Common-
wealth Avenue, which at that time of day is prac-
tically given over to automobilists, past the Vendome,
the Somerset and on over the flat, smooth road. It
was perfectly light now, because the electric lights
were about them; but there was no moon above, and
once in the country it would be dark going.
Curtis was intent on his machine; Reid was
thoughtful for a time, but after awhile leaned over
and talked to Miss Melrose.
“I heard something to-day that might interest
you,” he remarked.
What is it?" she asked.
Don MacLean is in Boston."
“I heard that,” she replied, casually.
'Who is he?" asked Curtis.
“A man who is frantically in love with Margue-
rite,” said Reid, with a smile.


156 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
“Charlie!” the girl reproved, and a flush crept
into her face. “It was never anything very seri-
ous.”
Curtis looked at her curiously for a moment, then
his eyes turned again to the road ahead.
“I don't suppose
it's
very
serious if a man pro-
poses to a girl seven times, is it?” Reid asked,
banteringly.
“ Did he do that?" asked Curtis, quickly.
“He merely made a fool of himself and me,
replied the actress, with spirit, speaking to Curtis.
“He was—in love with me, I suppose, but his family
objected because I was on the stage and threatened
to disinherit him, and all that sort of thing. So—it
ended it. Not that I ever considered the matter seri-
ously anyway,” she added.
There was silence again as The Green Dragon
plunged into the darkness of the country, the two
brilliant lights ahead showing every dip and rise
in the road. After awhile Curtis spoke again.
“He's now in Boston ?
“Yes," said the girl. “At least, I've heard so,"
she added, quickly.
Then the conversation ran into other channels,
and Curtis, busy with the great machine and the
innumerable levers which made it do this or do that
or do the other, dropped out of it. Reid and Miss
Melrose talked on, but the whirr of the car as it
gained speed made talking unsatisfactory and finally
the girl gave herself up to the pure delight of high


THE GREAT
157
GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
speed; a dangerous pleasure which sets the nerves
atingle and makes one greedy for more.
“Do you smell gasoline?” Curtis asked suddenly,
turning to the others.
“ Believe I do,” said Reid.
“ Confound it! If I've sprung a leak in my tank
it will be the deuce,” Curtis growled amiably.
“Do you think you've got enough to get to the
inn?" asked Miss Melrose. “ It can't be more than
five or six miles now."
“I'll run on until we stop," said Curtis. “We
might be able to stir up some along here somewhere.
I suppose they are prepared for autos.”
At last: lights showed ahead, many lights glimmer-
ing through the trees.
suppose that's the inn now," said Curtis.
it?” he asked of the girl.
Really, I don't know, but I have an impression
that it isn't. The one I mean seems farther out
than this and it seems to me we passed one on the
way. However, I don't remember very well."
“We'll stop and get some gasoline, anyhow,” said
Curtis.
Puffing and snorting odorously The Green Dragon
came to a standstill in front of an old house which
stood back twenty feet or more from the road. It
was lighted up, and from inside they could hear the
cheery rattle of dishes and see white-aproned waiters
moving about. Above the door was a sign, “Mon-
arch Inn."
on 1
" Is


158 GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
THE THE
"Is this the place ?” asked Reid.
“Oh, no," replied Miss Melrose. The inn I
spoke of was back from the road three or four hun-
dred feet through a grove.'
Curtis leaped out, and evidently dropped some-
thing from his pocket as he did so, for he stopped and
felt around for a moment. Then he examined his
tank.
“It's a leak," he said, in irritation. “I haven't
more than half a gallon left. These people must have
some gasoline. Wait a few minutes.”
Miss Melrose and Reid still sat in the car as he
started
away
toward the house. Almost at the
veranda he turned and called back :
“Charlie, I dropped something there when I
jumped out. Get down and strike a match and see
if you can find it. Don't go near that gasoline tank
with the match."
He disappeared inside the house. Reid climbed
out and struck several matches. Finally he found
what was lost and thrust it into an outside pocket.
Miss Melrose was gazing away down the road at two
brilliant lights coming toward them rapidly.
Rather chilly,” Reid said, as he straightened up.
Want a cup of coffee or something?”
Thanks, no," the girl replied.
“I think I'll run in and scare up some sort of a
hot drink, if you'll excuse me?"
“Now, Charlie, don't,” the girl asked, suddenly.
“I don't like it."


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
159
“Oh, one won't hurt," he replied, lightly.
“I shan't speak to you when you come out,” she
insisted, half banteringly.
“Oh, yes, you will." He laughed, and passed into
the house.
Miss Melrose tossed her pretty head impatiently
and turned to watch the approaching lights. They
were blinding as they drew nearer, clearly revealing
her figure, in its tan auto coat, to the occupant of the
other car.
The newcomer stopped and then she
heard whoever was in it-she couldn't see-speaking
to her."
“Would you mind turning your car a little so I
can run in off the road?”
“I don't know how,” she replied, helplessly.
There was a little pause. The occupant of the
other car was leaning forward, looking at her closely.
“Is that you, Marguerite ?” he asked finally.
Yes,” she replied. “Who is that? Don?"
“Yes."
A man's figure leaped out of the other machine
and came toward her.
Curtis appeared beside The Green Dragon with a
huge can of gasoline twenty minutes later. The two
occupants of the car were clearly silhouetted against
the sky, and Reid, leaning back in the tonneau, was
smoking.
“ Find it?” he asked.
“Yes,” growled Curtis. And he began the work


160 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
of repairing the leak and refilling his tank. It took
only five minutes or so, and then he climbed up into
the car.
Cold, Marguerite ?” he asked.
“She won't speak,” said Reid, leaning forward a
little. “She's angry because I went inside to get a
hot Scotch."
“ Wish I had one myself,” said Curtis.
“Let's wait till we get to the next place,” Reid
interposed. “A little supper and trimmings will put
all of us in a better humor."
Without answering, Curtis threw a lever, and the
car pulled out. Two automobiles which had been
standing when they arrived were still waiting for
their owners. Annoyed at the delay, Curtis put on
full speed. Finally Reid leaned forward and spoke
to the girl.
“In a good humor?” he asked.
She gave no sign of having heard, and Reid placed
his hand on her shoulder as he repeated the question.
Still there was no answer.
“Make her talk to you, Jack,” he suggested to
Curtis.
What's the matter, Marguerite?” asked Curtis,
as he glanced around.
Still there was no answer, and he slowed
up
the
car a little. Then he took her arm and shook it
gently. There was no response.
What is the matter with her?” he demanded.
“ Has she fainted?"


THE GREAT
AUTO MYSTERY 161
Again he shook her, this time more vigorously
than before.
“Marguerite," he called.
Then his hand sought her face; it was deathly
cold, clammy even about the chin.
The upper part
was still covered by the mask. For the third time he
shook her, then, really frightened, apparently, he
caught at her gloved wrist and brought the car to a
standstill. There was no trace of a pulse; the wrist
was cold as death.
“She must be ill—very ill,” he said in some agita-
tion. Is there a doctor near here?"
Reid was leaning over the senseless body now,
having raised up in the tonneau, and when he spoke
there seemed to be fear in his tone.
Better run on as fast as you can to the inn
ahead," he instructed Curtis. “It's nearer than the
one we just left. There
may
be a doctor there."
Curtis grabbed frantically at the lever and the car
shot ahead suddenly through the dark. In three
minutes the lights of the second inn were in sight.
The two men leaped from the car simultaneously and
raced for the house.
“A doctor, quick,” Curtis breathlessly demanded
of a waiter.
“Next door."
Without waiting for further instructions, Curtis
and Reid ran to the auto, lifted the girl in their arms
and took her to a house which stood just a few feet
away. There, after much clamoring, they aroused
V


162 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
some one.
Was the doctor in ? Yes. Would he
hurry? Yes.
The door opened and the men laid the girl's body
on a couch in the hall. Dr. Leonard appeared. He
was an old fellow, grizzled, with keen, kindly eyes
and rigid mouth.
What's the matter?” he asked.
“Think she's dead,” replied Curtis.
The doctor adjusted his glasses rather hurriedly.
“Who is she?” he asked, as he bent over
the still figure and fumbled about the throat and
breast.
Miss Marguerite Melrose, an actress," explained
Curtis, hurriedly.
“What's the matter with her?” demanded Reid,
fiercely.
The doctor still bent over the figure. In the dim
lamplight Curtis and Reid stood waiting anxiously,
impatiently, with white faces. At last the doctor
straightened up.
What is it?" demanded Curtis.
“She's dead," was the reply.
“Great God!" exclaimed Reid. “How ?
How?” Cur-
tis seemed speechless.
This,' said the doctor, and he exhibited a long
knife, damp with blood. Stabbed through the
heart.
Curtis stared at him, at the knife, then at the inert
figure, and lastly at the dead white of her face where
it showed beneath the mask.


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 163
Look, Jack!” exclaimed Reid, suddenly. “The
knife!"
Curtis looked again, then sank down on the couch
beside the body.
“Oh, my God! It's horrible!” he said.
II
To Hutchinson Hatch and half a dozen other re-
porters, Dr. Leonard, at his home late that night,
told the story of the arrival of Jack Curtis and
Charles Reid with the body of the girl, and the suc-
ceeding events so far as he knew them. The police
and Medical Examiner Francis had preceded the
newspaper men, and the body had been removed to
a nearby village.
They came here in great excitement,” Dr. Leon-
ard explained. “They brought the body in with
them, the man Curtis lifting her by the shoulders and
the man Reid at the feet. They placed the body on
this couch. I asked them who she was, and they told
me she was Marguerite Melrose, an actress. That's
all that was said of her identity.
Then I made an examination of the body, seek-
ing a trace of life. There was none, although the
body was not then entirely cold. In examining her
heart my hand struck the knife which had killed
her—a heavy weapon, evidently used for rough
work, with a blade of six or seven inches. I drew the


164 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY,
knife out.
Of course, knowing that it had pierced
her heart, any idea of doing anything to save her was
beyond question.
'One of the men, Curtis, seemed greatly excited
about this knife after Reid called his attention to it.
Curtis took the knife out of my hand and examined
it closely, then asked if he might keep it. I told him
it would have to be turned over to the medical exam-
iner. He argued about it, and finally, to settle the
argument, I took it out of his hand. Reid explained
to Curtis that it was necesasry for me to keep the
knife, and finally Curtis seemed to agree to it.
Then I suggested that the police be notified. I
did this myself by telephone, the men remaining with
me all the time. I asked if they could throw any
light on the tragedy, but neither could. Curtis said
he had been out searching for a man who had the
keys to a shed where some gasoline was locked up,
and it took fifteen or twenty minutes to find him. As
soon as he got the gasoline he returned to the auto.
Reid and Miss Melrose were at this time in the
auto, he said.
What had happened while he had
been away Curtis didn't know. Reid said he, too,
had stepped out of the automobile, and after exchang-
ing a few words with Miss Melrose went into the inn.
There he remained fifteen minutes or so, because
inside he saw a woman he knew and spoke to her.
He declared that any one of three waiters could
verify his statement that he was in the Monarch Inn.
“After I had notified the police Curtis grew very


THE GREAT
AUTO MYSTERY 165
uneasy in his actions—it didn't occur to me at the
moment, but now I recall that it was so—and sug-
gested to Reid that they go on to Boston and send
out detectives-special Pinkerton men. I tried to
dissuade them, but they went away. I couldn't stop
them. They gave me their cards, however. They
are at the Hotel Teutonic, and told me they could be
seen there at any time. The medical examiner and
the police came afterwards. I told them, and one of
the detectives started immediately for Boston. They
have probably told their story to him by this time."
"What did the young woman look like?” asked
Hatch.
“Really, I couldn't say," said the doctor. “She
wore an automobile mask which covered all her face
except the chin, and there was a veil tied over her
cap, concealing her hair. I didn't remove these; I
left the body just as it was for the medical examiner.”
“How was she dressed?” Hatch went on.
“She wore a long tan automobile dust coat of what
seemed to be rich material, and beneath this a hand-
some—not a fancy-gown. I believe it was tailor-
made. She was a woman of superb figure.'
That was all that could be learned from Dr. Leon-
ard, and Hatch and the other men raced back to Bos-
ton. The next day the newspapers flamed with the
mystery of the murder of Miss Melrose, a beautiful
Western actress who was visiting Boston. Each
newspaper watched the other greedily to see if there
was a picture of Miss Melrose; neither had one.


166 THE GREAT
AUTO MYSTERY,
The newspapers also carried the stories of Jack
Curtis and Charles Reid in connection with the mur-
der. The stories were in substance just what Dr.
Leonard had said, but were given in more detail. It
was the general presumption, almost a foregone con-
clusion, that some one had killed Miss Melrose while
the two men were away from the auto.
Who was this some one? Man or woman? No
one could answer. Reid's story of being inside the
Monarch Inn, where he spoke to a lady he knew-
but whose name he refused to give--was verified by
Hatch's
paper...
Three waiters had seen him.
The medical examiner had made only a brief state-
ment, in which he had said, in answer to a question,
that the person who killed Miss Melrose might have
been either at her right, in the position Curtis would
have occupied while driving the car, or might have
leaned forward from behind and stabbed her. Thus
it was not impossible that one of the men in the car
with her had killed her, yet against this possibility
was the fact that each of the men was one whom one
could not readily associate with such a crime.
The fact that the fatal blow was delivered from
the right was proven, said the astute medical exam-
iner, by the fact that the knife slanted as a knife could
not have been slanted conveniently by a person on
her other side-her left. There were many dark,
underlying intimations behind what the medical man
said; but he refused to say any more.
Meanwhile
the body remained in the village where it had been


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 167
taken. Efforts to get a photograph were unavailing;
pleas of
newspaper artists for permission to sketch
her fell upon deaf ears.
Curtis and Reid, after their first statements, re-
mained in seclusion at the Teutonic. They were not
arrested because this did not seem necessary. Both
had offered to do anything in their power to solve
the riddle, had even employed Pinkerton men who
were now on the case; but they would say nothing nor
see anyone except the police. The police encouraged
them in this attitude, and hinted darkly and myste-
riously at clews which“would lead to an arrest within
twenty-four hours.'
Hatch read these intimations and smiled grimly.
Then he went out to try what a little patience and
perseverance and human intelligence would do. He
learned something of Reid's little romance in Boston.
Yet not all of it. It was a fact, however, that Reid
had called at the home of Miss Elizabeth Dow on
Beacon Hill just after noon and inquired for her.
She is not in,” the maid had replied.
“ I'll leave my card for her," said Reid.
“I don't think she'll be back," the girl answered.
“Not be back?” Reid repeated. Why?”
“Haven't you seen the afternoon papers ? " asked
the girl. “They will explain. Mrs. Dow, her
mother, told me not to talk to anyone.'
Reid left the house with a wrinkle in his brow and
walked on toward the Common. There he halted a
newsboy and bought an afternoon paper-many


168 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
afternoon papers. The first pages were loaded with
details of the murder of Miss Melrose, theories, con-
jectures, a thousand little things, with long dispatches
of her history and her stage career from San
Francisco.
Reid passed these over impatiently with a slight
shiver and looked inside the paper. There he found
the thing to which the maid had referred.
“By George!” he exclaimed.
It was a story of the elopement of Elizabeth Dow
with Morgan Mason, Reid's rival. It seemed that
Miss Dow and Mason met by appointment at the
Monarch Inn and went from there in an automobile.
The bride had written to her parents before she
started, saying she preferred Mason despite his pov-
erty. The family refused to talk of the matter. But
there in facsimile was the marriage license.
Reid's face was a study as he walked back to the
hotel. In a private room off the café he found Curtis,
who had been drinking heavily, yet who, with the
strange mood of some men, was not visibly intoxi-
cated. Reid threw the paper down, open at the elope-
ment announcement.
“See that,” he said shortly.
Curtis read it—or glanced at it—but did not make
a remark until he came to the name, the Monarch
Inn. Then he looked up.
“ That's where the other thing happened, isn't
it?” he asked, rather thickly.
“Yes."


THE GREAT
AUTO MYSTERY 169
Curtis rambled off into something else; studiously
he avoided any reference to the tragedy, yet that was
the one thing which was in his mind. It was in a fu-
tile effort to forget it that he was drinking now. He
talked on as a drunken man will for a time, then
turned suddenly to Reid.
“I loved her,” he declared suddenly, passionately.
“My God!”
Try not to think of it,” Reid advised.
“You'll never say anything about that other thing
—the knife—will you?” pleaded Curtis.
“Of course not,” said Reid, impatiently. They
couldn't drag it out of me. But you're drinking too
much—you want to quit it. First thing you know
you'll be saying more than-get up and go out and
take a walk."
Curtis stared at Reid vacantly for a moment, as if
not understanding, then arose. He had regained pos-
session of himself to a certain extent. but his face
was pale.
“I think I will go out,” he said.
After a time he passed through the café door into
a side street and, refreshed a little by the cool air,
started to walk along Tremont Street toward the
shopping district. It was two o'clock in the after-
noon and the streets were thronged.
Half a dozen reporters were idling in the lobby of
the hotel, waiting vainly for either Reid or Curtis.
The newspapers were shouting for another story
from the only two men who could know a great deal


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
171
“And hurry,” he added. “This gentleman is ill.”
The cabby applied the whip and drove out into
Tremont, then over toward Park Street. Curtis
aroused a little.
“Where're we going?” he demanded.
“To a doctor,” replied Hatch.
Curtis sank back with eyes closed and his face
white—so white that Hatch felt of the pulse to as-
sure himself that the heart was still beating. After
a few minutes the cab stopped and, still assisting
Curtis, Hatch went to the door. An aged woman
answered the bell.
“Professor Van Dusen here?" asked the reporter.
“ Yes."
Please tell him that Mr. Hatch is here with a
gentleman who needs immediate attention," Hatch
directed, hurriedly.
He knew his way here and, still supporting Cur-
tis, walked in. The woman disappeared. Curtis
sank down on a couch in the little reception room,
looked at Hatch glassily for a moment, then without
a sound dropped back on the couch unconscious.
After a moment the door opened and there came
in Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, The
Thinking Machine. He squinted inquiringly at
Hatch, and Hatch waved his head toward Curtis.
“Dear me, dear me,” exclaimed The Thinking
Machine.
He leaned over the prostrate figure a moment,
then disappeared into another room, returning with


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
173
Machine, “ you immediately give the impression that
you were there and saw it. Go on."
From the beginning, then, Hatch told the story as
he knew it; of the stopping of The Green Dragon
at the Monarch Inn, of the events there, of the
whereabouts of Curtis and Reid at the time the girl
received the knife thrust and of the confirmation of
Reid's story. Then he detailed those incidents of the
arrival of the men with the girl at Dr. Leonard's
house, of what had transpired there, of the effort
Curtis had made to get possession of the knife.
With finger tips pressed together and squinting
steadily upward, The Thinking Machine listened.
At its end, which bore on the actions of Curtis just
preceding his appearance in the room with them, The
Thinking Machine arose and walked over to the
couch where Curtis lay. He ran his slender fingers
idly through the unconscious man's thick hair several
times.
“Doesn't it strike you as perfectly possible, Mr.
Hatch,” he asked finally, “that Miss Melrose did
kill herself ? "
" It may be perfectly possible, but it doesn't appear
so," said Hatch. “There was no motive."
“And certainly you've shown no motive for any-
thing else,” said the other, crustily. “Still," he
mused, “I really can't say anything until I talk to
him.'
He again turned to his patient, and as he looked
saw the red blood surge back into the face.


174 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
Ah, now we're all right,” he announced.
Thus it happened, for after another ten minutes
the patient sat up suddenly on the couch and looked
at the two men before him, bewildered.
“What's the matter?” he asked. The thickness
was gone from his speech; he was himself again,
although a little shaky.
Briefly, Hatch explained to him what had hap-
pened, and he listened silently. Finally he turned to
The Thinking Machine.
“And this gentleman ?” he asked. He noted the
queer appearance of the scientist, and stared into the
squint eyes frankly.
Professor Van Dusen, a distinguished scientist
and physician,” Hatch introduced.
"I brought you
here. He has been working with you for an hour."
“And now, Mr. Curtis," said The Thinking Ma-
chine, “if you will tell us all you know about the
murder of Miss Melrose-
Curtis paled suddenly.
“Why do you ask me?” he demanded.
“You said a great deal while you were uncon-
scious,” remarked The Thinking Machine, as he
dreamily stared at the ceiling. “I know that worry
over that and too much alcohol have put you in a
condition bordering on nervous collapse. I think it
would be better if you told it all.”
Hatch instantly saw the trend of the scientist's
remarks, and remained discreetly silent., Curtis
stared at both for a moment, then paced nervously


176 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
“Had she ever refused to marry you?”
“I had never asked her."
Why?”
“Is this a third degree?” demanded Curtis,
angrily, and he arose. “Am I a prisoner?”
“Not at all," said The Thinking Machine, quietly.
“You may be made a prisoner, though, on what
said while unconscious. I am merely trying to help
you.”
Curtis sank down in a chair with his head in his
hands and remained motionless for several minutes.
At last he looked up.
“I'll answer your questions," he said.
Why did you never ask Miss Melrose to marry
you ?"
Because—well, because I understood another
man, Donald MacLean, was in love with her, and she
might have loved him. I understood she would have
married him had it not been that by doing so she
would have caused his disinheritance. MacLean is
now in Boston."
“Ah!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine.
“Your friend Reid didn't happen to be in love with
her, too, did he?”
“Oh, no," was the reply. “Reid came here hoping
to win the love of Miss Dow, a society girl. I came
with him.”
“Miss Dow?” asked Hatch, quickly. “The girl
who eloped last night with Morgan Mason?”
“Yes,” replied Curtis. “That elopement and this


THE GREAT
GREAT 177
AUTO AUTO
MYSTERY
-crime have put Reid almost in as bad a condition
as I am."
“What elopement? asked The Thinking Ma-
chine.
Hatch explained how Mason had procured a mar-
riage license, how Miss Dow and Mason had met at
the Monarch Inn-where Miss Melrose must have
been killed according to all stories—how Miss Dow
had written to her parents from there of the elope-
ment and then of their disappearance. The Thinking
Machine listened, but without apparent interest.
“Have you such a knife as was used to kill Miss
Melrose?” he asked at the end.
“No."
Did you ever have such a knife?”
"Well, once."
“Where did you carry it when it was not in your
auto kit?"
“In my lower coat pocket.”
“By the way, what kind of looking woman was
Miss Melrose ?"
One of the most beautiful women I ever met,'
said Curtis, with a certain enthusiasm. “Of ordi-
nary height, superb figure—a woman who would
attract attention anywhere."
“I believe she wore a veil and an automobile mask
at the time she was killed?"
“Yes. They covered all her face except her chin."
“Could she, wearing an automobile mask, see
either side of herself without turning?" asked The


178 THE
THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
Thinking Machine, pointedly. “Had you intended
to stab her, say while the car was in motion and had
the knife in your hand, even in daylight, could she
have seen it without turning her head? Or, if she
had had the knife, could you have seen it?"
Curtis shuddered a little.
“No, I don't believe so."
“ Was she blonde or brunette ?"
“ Blonde, with great clouds of golden hair," said
Curtis, and again there was admiration in his tone.
Golden hair? " Hatch repeated. “I understood
Medical Examiner Francis to say she had dark
hair?"
“No, golden hair," was the positive reply.
“Did you see the body, Mr. Hatch ? " asked the
scientist.
“No. None of us saw it. Dr. Francis makes that
a rule."
The Thinking Machine arose, excused himself and
passed into another room. They heard the telephone
bell ring and then some one closed the door con-
necting the two rooms. When the scientist returned
he went straight to a point which Hatch had impa-
tiently awaited.
What happened to you this afternoon in Winter
Street ? "
Curtis had retained his composure well up to this
point; now he became uneasy again. Quick pallor
on his face was succeeded by a flush which crept up
to the roots of his hair.


180 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
ask him two questions. If he answers those ques-
tions, as I believe he will, I can demonstrate that you
are not guilty of and have no connection with the
murder of Miss Melrose. Let me ask these ques-
tions, without any hint or remark from you as to
what the answer must be. Are you willing ?”
“I am,” replied Curtis. His face was white, but
his voice was firm.
Detective Mallory, whom Curtis didn't know, and
Charles Reid entered the room. Both looked about
curiously. Mallory nodded brusquely at Hatch.
Reid looked at Curtis and Curtis looked away.
“Mr. Reid," said The Thinking Machine, with-
out any preliminary, “Mr. Curtis tells me that the
knife used to kill Miss Melrose was your property.
Is that so?” he demanded quickly, as Curtis faced
about wonderingly.
“No," thundered Reid, fiercely.
“Is it Mr. Curtis's knife?” asked The Thinking
Machine.
“Yes," flashed Reid. “ It's a part of his auto
kit."
Curtis started to speak; The Thinking Machine
waved his hand toward him. Detective Mallory
caught the gesture and understood that Jack Curtis
was his prisoner for murder.


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
181
IV
CURTIS was
led
away
and locked
up.
He raved and
bitterly denounced Reid for the information he had
given, but he did not deny it. Indeed, after the first
burst of fury he said nothing.
Once he was under lock and key the police, led by
Detective Mallory, searched his rooms at the Hotel
Teutonic and there they found a handkerchief stained
with blood. It was slight, still it was a stain. This
was immediately placed in the hands of an expert,
who pronounced it human blood. Then the case
against Curtis seemed complete; it was his knife, he
had been in love with Miss Melrose, therefore proba-
bly jealous of her, and here was the tell-tale blood-
stain.
Meanwhile Reid was permitted to go his way. He
seemed crushed by the rapid sequence of events, and
read eagerly every line he could find in the public
prints concerning both the murder and the elopement
of Miss Dow. This latter affair, indeed, seemed to
have greater sway over his mind than the murder, or
that a lifetime friend was now held as the murderer.
Meanwhile The Thinking Machine had signified
to Hatch his desire to visit the scene of the crime and
see what might be done there. Late in the afternoon,
therefore, they started, taking a train for a village
nearest the Monarch Inn.
“It's a most extraordinary case,” The Thinking
**


182 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
Machine said, “much more extraordinary than you
can imagine.”
“ In what respect ? ” asked the reporter.
“In motive, in the actual manner of the girl meet-
ing her death and in a dozen other details which I
can't state now because I haven't all the facts."
“ You don't doubt but what it was murder?'
“It doesn't necessarily follow," said The Think-
ing Machine, evasively. “Suppose we were seeking
a motive for Miss Melrose's suicide, what would we
have? We would have her love affair with this man
MacLean whom she refused to marry because she
knew he would be disinherited. Suppose she had not
seen him for a couple of years—suppose she had
made up her mind to give him up—that he had sud-
denly appeared when she sat alone in the automobile
in front of the Monarch Inn—suppose, then, finding
all her love reawakened, she had decided to end it
all ?”
“But Curtis's knife and the blood on his hand-
kerchief?”
Suppose, having made up
her mind to kill her.
self, she had sought a weapon ? ” went on The Think-
ing Machine, as if there had been no interruption.
“What is more natural than she should have sought
something—the knife, say—in the tool bag or kit,
which must have been near her? Suppose she stabbed
herself while the men were away from the automo-
bile, or even after they had started on again in the
darkness ?”
Hatch looked a little crestfallen.


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 183
“It's
“You believe, then, that she did kill herself ?”
he asked.
Certainly not,” was the prompt response. “1
don't believe Miss Melrose killed herself—but as
yet I know nothing to the contrary. As for the blood
on Curtis's handkerchief, remember he helped carry
the body to Dr. Leonard; it might have come from
that-it might have come from a slight spattering
of blood.”
“But circumstances certainly implicate Curtis.”
"I wouldn't convict any man of any crime on any
circumstantial evidence,” was the response.
worthless unless a man is forced to confess."
The reporter was puzzled, bewildered, and his
face showed it. There were many things he did not
understand, but the principal question in his mind
took form:
“Why did you turn Curtis over to the police,
then ?"
Because he is the man who owned the knife,"
was the reply. “I knew he was lying to me from
the first about the knife. Men have been executed
on less evidence than that."
The train stopped and they proceeded to the office
of the medical examiner, where the body of the
woman lay. Professor Van Dusen was readily per-
mitted to see the body, even to offer his expert assist-
ance in an autopsy which was then being performed;
but the reporter was stopped at the door. After an
hour The Thinking Machine came out.


184 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY,
She was stabbed from the right,” he said in
answer to Hatch's inquiring lcok, “either by some
one sitting at her right, by some one leaning over
her right shoulder, or she might have done it her-
self."
Then they went on to Monarch Inn, five miles
away. Here, after a comprehensive squint at the
landscape, The Thinking Machine entered and for
half an hour questioned three waiters there.
Did these waiters see Mr. Reid? Yes. They
identified his published picture as a gentleman who
had come in and taken a hot Scotch at the bar. Any
one with him? No. Speak to anyone in the inn?
Yes, a lady.
“What did she look like?" asked The Thinking
Machine.
“Couldn't say, sir," the waiter replied. “She
came in an automobile and wore a mask, with a veil
tied about her head and a long tan automobile coat."
With the mask on you couldn't see her face?"
Only her chin, sir."
“No glimpse of her hair?'
“No, sir. It was covered by the veil."
Then The Thinking Machine turned loose a flood
of questions. He learned that the woman had been
waiting at the inn for nearly an hour when Reid
entered; that she had come there alone and at her
request had been shown into a private parlor—“to
wait for a gentleman," she had told the waiter.
She had opened the door when she heard Reid


THE GREAT AUTO
AUTO MYSTERY 185
enter and had glanced out, but he had disappeared
into the bar before she saw him. When he started
away she looked out again. Then she saw him and
he saw her. She seemed surprised and started to
close the door, when he spoke to her. No one heard
what was said, but he went in and the door was
closed.
No one knew just when either Reid or the woman
left the inn. Some half an hour or so after Reid
entered the room a waiter rapped on the door. There
was no answer. He opened the door and went in,
but there was no one there. It was presumed then
that the gentleman she had been waiting for had
appeared and they had gone out together. It was a
fact that an automobile had come up meanwhile-
in addition to that in which Curtis, Miss Melrose
and Reid had come—and had gone away again.
When all this questioning had come to an end and
these facts were in possession of The Thinking Ma-
chine, the reporter advanced a theory.
“That woman was unquestionably Miss Dow, who
knew Reid and who eloped that night with Morgan
Mason."
The Thinking Machine looked at him a moment
without speaking, then led the way
into the private
room where the lady had been waiting. Hatch fol-
lowed. They remained there five or ten minutes,
then The Thinking Machine came out and started
toward the front door, only eight or ten feet from
this room. The road was twenty feet away.


186 THE GREAT
AUTO MYSTERY
'Let's go,” he said, finally.
Where?” asked Hatch.
“Don't you see?” asked The Thinking Machine,
irrelevantly, “that it would have been perfectly
possible for Miss Melrose herself to have left the
automobile and gone inside the inn for a few
minutes ? "
Following previously received directions The
Thinking Machine now set out to find the man who
had charge of the gasoline tank. They went away
together and remained half an hour.
On the scientist's return to where Hatch had been
waiting impatiently they climbed into the car which
had brought them to the inn.
“Two miles down this road, then the first road
to your right until I tell you to stop," was the order
to the chauffeur.
“Where are you going?” asked Hatch, curiously.
“Don't know yet," was the enigmatic reply.
The car ran on through the night, with great,
unblinking lights staring straight out ahead on a road
as smooth as asphalt. The turn was made, then more
slowly the car proceeded along the cross road. At
the second house, dimly discernible through the night,
The Thinking Machine gave the signal to stop.
Hatch leaped out, and The Thinking Machine
followed. Together they approached the house, a
small cottage some distance back from the road. As
they went up the path they came upon another auto-
mobile, but it had no lights and the engine was still.


THE GREAT
GREAT MYSTERY 187
AUTO AUTO
Even in the darkness they could see that one of the
forward wheels was gone, and the front of the car
was demolished.
“That fellow had a bad accident,” Hatch re-
marked.
An old woman and a boy appeared at the door in
answer to their rap.
“I am looking for a gentleman who was injured
last night in an automobile accident," said The Think-
ing Machine. “ Is he still here?”
Yes. Come in.'
They stepped inside as a man's voice called from
another room:
“ Who is it?"
Two gentlemen to see the man who was hurt,"
the woman called.
“Do you know his name?” asked The Thinking
Machine.
No, sir,” the woman replied. Then the man
who had spoken appeared.
“Would it be possible for us to see the gentleman
who was hurt?" asked The Thinking Machine.
“Well, the doctor said we would have to keep
folks away from him,” was the reply. “Is there
anything I could tell you?
We would like to know who he is,” said The
Thinking Machine. “ It may be that we can take
him off your hands."
“I don't know his name," the man explained;
but here are the things we took off him. He was
66


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 189
“Has anybody?”
'No, sir.”
“What direction was the car going when it
struck?"
“I couldn't tell you, sir. It had turned entirely
over and was in the middle of the road when we
found it."
“ What's the number of the car?”
It didn't have any.
“This gentleman has good medical attention, I
suppose ?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Leonard is attending him. He
says his condition isn't dangerous, and meanwhile
we're letting him stay here, because we suppose he'll
make it all right with us when he gets well."
“ Thank you—that's all,” said The Thinking Ma-
chine. “Good-night.”
With Hatch he turned and left the house.
“What is all this?” asked Hatch, bewildered.
“ That man is Morgan Mason," said The Think-
ing Machine.
“ The man who eloped with Miss Dow?” asked
Hatch, breathlessly.
Now, where is Miss Dow?” asked The Think-
ing Machine, in turn.
6. You mean
The Thinking Machine waved his hand off into
the vague night; it was a gesture which Hatch under-
stood perfectly


190 THE
THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY,
V
HUTCHINSON HATCH was deeply thoughtful on the
swift run back to the village. There he and The
Thinking Machine took train to Boston. Hatch was
turning over possibilities. Had Miss Dow eloped
with some one besides Mason? There had been no
other name mentioned. Was it possible that she
killed Miss Melrose ? Vaguely his mind clutched for
a motive for this, yet none appeared, and he dis-
missed the idea with a laugh at its absurdity. Then,
What? Where? How? Why
“I suppose the story of an actress having been
murdered in an automobile under mysterious cir-
cumstances would have been telegraphed all over
the country, Mr. Hatch?” asked The Thinking
Machine.
“ Yes," said Hatch. “If you mean this story,
there's not a city in the country that doesn't know of
it by this time.”
" It's perfectly wonderful, the resources of the
press," the scientist mused.
Hatch nodded his acquiescence. He had hoped
for a moment that The Thinking Machine had asked
the question as a preliminary to something else, but
that was apparently all. After awhile the train jerked
a little and The Thinking Machine spoke again.
“I think, Mr. Hatch, I wouldn't yet print any-
thing about the disappearance of Miss Dow," he


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
191
said. “ It might be unwise at present. No one else
will find it out, so-
“I understand," said Hatch. It was a command.
“By the way," the other went on, “ do you hap-
pen to remember the name of that Winter Street store
that Curtis went in?"
“Yes," and he named it.
It was nearly midnight when The Thinking Ma-
chine and Hatch reached Boston. The reporter was
dismissed with a curt:
Come
up at noon to-morrow."
Hatch went his way. Next day at noon promptly
he was waiting in the reception room of The Think-
ing Machine's home. The scientist was out-down
in Winter Street, Martha explained—and Hatch
waited impatiently for his return. He came in finally.
“Well?” inquired the reporter.
Impossible to say anything until day after to-
morrow," said The Thinking Machine.
And then?” asked Hatch.
The solution,” replied the scientist positively.
“ Now I'm waiting for some one."
“ Miss Dow?"
“Meanwhile you might see Reid and find out in
some way if he ever happened to make a gift of any
little thing, a thing that a woman would wear on the
outside of her coat, for instance, to Miss Dow."
“Lord, I don't think he'll say anything."
“ Find out, too, when he intends to go back
West."
66


192 THE
THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
It took Hatch three hours, and required a vast deal
of patience and skill, to find out that on a recent
birthday Miss Dow, had received a present of a mono-
gram belt buckle from Reid. That was all; and
that was not what The Thinking Machine meant.
Hatch had the word of Miss Dow's maid for it that
while Miss Dow wore this belt at the time of her
elopement, it was underneath the automobile coat.
"Have you heard anything more from Miss
Dow?" asked Hatch.
“Yes," responded the maid. “Her father re-
ceived a letter from her this morning. It was from
Chicago, and said that she and her husband were on
their way to San Francisco and that the family
might not hear from them again until after the honey-
moon.'
How? What?” gasped Hatch. His brain
was in a muddle. "She in Chicago, with — her
husband?"
" Yes, sir."
“Is there any question about the letter being in
her handwriting ? "
“Not at all,” replied the maid, positively. “It's
perfectly natural," she concluded.
But-" Hatch began, then he stopped.
For one fleeting instant he was tempted to tell the
maid that the man whom the family had supposed
was Miss Dow's husband was lying unconscious at
a farmhouse not a great way from the Monarch Inn,
and that there was no trace of Miss Dow. Now


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
193
this letter! His head whirled when he thought
of it.
Is there any question but that Miss Dow did
elope with Mr. Mason and not some other man?”
he asked.
“ It was Mr. Mason, all right," the girl responded.
I knew there was to be an elopement and helped
arrange for Miss Dow to go,” she added, confiden-
tially. “It was Mr. Mason, I know."
Then Hatch rushed away and telephoned to The
Thinking Machine. He simply couldn't hold this
latest development until he saw him again.
We've made a mistake,” he bellowed through
the 'phone.
“What's that?” demanded The Thinking Ma-
chine, aggressively.
Miss Dow is in Chicago with her husband-
family has received a letter from her—that man out
there with the smashed head can't be Mason,” the
reporter explained hurriedly.
“Dear me, dear me!” said The Thinking Ma-
chine over the wire. And again: “Dear me!"
“Her maid told me all about it," Hatch rushed
on," that is, all about her aiding Miss Dow to elope,
and all that. Must be some mistake."
“Dear me!” again came in the voice of The
Thinking Machine. Then: “Is Miss Dow a blonde
or brunette ?"
The irrelevancy of the question caused Hatch to
smile in spite of himself.


194 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
"A brunette,” he answered. “A pronounced
brunette.'
Then,” said The Thinking Machine, as if this
were merely dependent upon or a part of the blonde
or brunette proposition, “get immediately a picture
of Mason somewhere—I suppose you can-go out
and see that man with the smashed head and see if
it is Mason. Let me know by 'phone.”
“All right,” said Hatch, rather hopelessly. “But
it is impossible-
Don't say that,” snapped The Thinking Ma-
chine. “Don't say that,” he repeated, angrily. “It
annoys me exceedingly."
It was nearly ten o'clock that night when Hatch
again 'phoned to The Thinking Machine. He had
found a photograph, he had seen the man with the
smashed head. They were the same. He so in-
formed The Thinking Machine.
“Ah,” said that individual, quietly.
find out about any gift that Reid might have made
to Miss Dow?” he asked.
“Yes, a monogram belt buckle of gold," was the
reply.
Hatch was over his head and knew it. He was
finding out things and answering questions which, by
the wildest stretch of his imagination, he could not
bring to bear on the matter in hand—the mystery
surrounding the murder of Marguerite Melrose, an
actress.
“Meet me at my place here at one o'clock day
“ Did you


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 195
me.
after to-morrow, ” instructed The Thinking Ma-
chine. “Publish as little as you can of this matter
until you see
It's extraordinary-perfectly
extraordinary. Good-by.”
That was all. Hatch groped hopelessly through
the tangle, seeking one fact that he could grasp. Then
it occurred to him that he had never ascertained when
Reid intended to return West, and he went to the
Hotel Teutonic for this purpose.
The clerk in-
formed him that Reid was to start in a couple of
days. Reid had hardly left his room since Curtis
was locked up.
Precisely at one o'clock on the second day follow-
ing, as directed by The Thinking Machine, Hatch
appeared and was ushered in. The Thinking Ma-
chine was bowed over a retort in his laboratory, and
he looked up at the reporter with a question in his
eyes.
Oh, yes,” he said, as if recollecting for the first
time the purpose of the visit.
“Oh, yes.”
He led the way to the reception room and gave
instructions to Martha to admit whoever inquired
for him; then he sat down and leaned back in his
chair. After awhile the bell rang and two men were
shown in. One was Charles Reid; the other a detec-
tive whom Hatch knew.
“Ah, Mr. Reid,” said The Thinking Machine.
“ I'm sorry to have troubled you, but there were some
questions I wanted to ask before you went away. If
you'll wait just a moment."


196 THE GREAT AUTO
MYSTERY
Reid bowed and took a seat.
• “Is he under arrest?” Hatch inquired of the
detective, aside.
“Oh, no," was the reply. “Oh, no. Detective
Mallory told me to ask him to come up. I don't
know what for."
After awhile the bell rang again. Then Hatch
heard Detective Mallory's voice in the hall and the
rustle of skirts; then the voice of another man. Mal-
lory appeared at the door after a moment; behind
him came two veiled women and a man who was a
stranger to Hatch.
" I'm going to make a request, Mr. Mallory,"
said The Thinking Machine. “I know it will be a
cause of pleasure to Mr. Reid. It is that you release
Mr. Curtis, who is charged with the murder of Miss
Melrose."
Why?" demanded Mallory, quickly. Hatch
and Reid stared at the scientist curiously.
This," said The Thinking Machine.
The two women simultaneously removed their
veils.
One was Miss Marguerite Melrose.
VI
"Miss MELROSE that was,” explained The Thinking
Machine, now Mrs. Donald MacLean. This, gen-
tlemen, is her husband. This other young woman is
Miss Dow's maid. Together I believe we will be


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
197
able to throw some light on the death of the young
woman who was found in Mr. Curtis's automobile."
Stupefied with amazement, Hatch stared at the
woman whose reported murder had startled and
puzzled the entire country. Reid had shown only
slight emotion—an emotion of a kind hard to read.
Finally he advanced to Miss Melrose, or Mrs. Mac-
Lean, with outstretched hand.
“Marguerite,” he said.
The girl looked deeply into his eyes, then took the
proffered hand.
“And Jack Curtis ? ” she asked.
“ If Detective Mallory will have him brought here
we can immediately end his connection with this case
so far as your murder is concerned,” said The Think-
ing Machine.
Who—who was murdered, then?" asked Hatch.
“A little circumstantial development is necessary
to show," replied The Thinking Machine.
Detective Mallory retired into another room and
'phoned to have Curtis brought up. On his assurance
that there had been a mistake which he would explain
later, Curtis set out from his cell with a detec-
tive and within a few minutes appeared in the room,
wonderingly.
One look at Marguerite and he was beside her,
gripping her hand. For a time he didn't speak; it
was not necessary. Then the actress, with flushed
face, indicated MacLean, who had stood quietly by,
an interested but silent spectator.


198 THE 'GREAT
AUTO MYSTERY
'My husband, Jack," she said.
Quick comprehension swept over Curtis and he
looked from one to another. Then he approached
MacLean with outstretched hand.
“I congratulate you," he said, with deep feeling.
Make her happy."
Reid had stood unobserved meanwhile. Hatch's
glance traveled from one to another of the persons
in the room. He was seeking to explain that expres-
sion on Reid's face, vainly thus far. There was a
little pause as Reid and Curtis came face to face, but
neither spoke.
Now, please, what does it all mean?” asked
MacLean, who up to this time had been silent.
It's a strange study of the human brain," said
The Thinking Machine, “and incidentally a little
proof that circumstantial evidence is absolutely worth-
less. For instance, here it was proven that Miss
Melrose was dead, that Mr. Curtis was jealous of
her, that while drinking he had threatened her—this
I learned at the Hotel Yarmouth, but now it is unim-
portant—that his knife killed her, and finally that
there was blood on one of his handkerchiefs. This
is the complete circumstantial chain; and Miss Mel-
rose appears, alive.
Suppose we take the case from the point where
I entered it. It will be interesting as showing the
methods of a brain which reduces all things to tangi-
ble strands which may be woven into a whole, then
fitting them together. My knowledge of the affair


200 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
made to him by Dr. Leonard. The first thing that
impressed me here was the fact that Curtis had, in
taking the girl into the house, carried her by the shoul-
ders. Instantly I saw, knowing that the girl had been
stabbed through the heart, how it would be possible
for blood to get on Mr. Curtis's hands, thence on his
handkerchief or clothing. This was before I knew
or considered his connection with the death at all.
“Curtis told Dr. Leonard that the girl was Miss
Melrose. The body wasn't yet cold, therefore death
must have come just before it reached the doctor.
Then the knife was discovered. Here was the first
tangible working clew—a rough knife, with a blade
six or seven inches long. Obviously not the sort of
knife a woman would carry about with her. There-
fore, where did it come from?
Curtis tried to induce the doctor to let him have
the knife; probably Curtis's knife, possibly Reid's.
Why Curtis's? The nature of the knife, a blade six
or seven inches long, indicated a knife used for heavy
work, not for a penknife. Under ordinary circum-
stances such a knife would not have been carried by
Reid; therefore it may have belonged to Curtis's
auto kit. He might have carried it in his pocket.
Thus, considering that it was Miss Melrose who
was dead, we had these facts: Dead only a few min-
utes, possibly stabbed while the two men were away
from the car; Curtis's knife used—not a knife from
any other auto kit, mind you, because Curtis recog-
nized this knife. Two and two make four, not some-
times, but all the time."


THE 201
GREAT GREAT
AUTO MYSTERY,
Every person in the room was leaning forward,
eagerly listening; Reid's face was perfectly white.
The Thinking Machine finally arose, walked over
and ran his fingers through Reid's hair, then sat again
squinting at the ceiling. He spoke as if to himself.
“Then Mr. Hatch told me another important
thing," he went on. “At the moment it appeared a
coincidence, later it assumed its complete importance.
This was that Dr. Leonard did not actually see the
face of the girl—only the chin; that the hair was
covered by a veil and the mask covered the remainder
of the face. Here for the first time I saw that it was
wholly possible that the woman was not Miss Mel-
rose at all. I saw it as a possibility; not that I be-
lieved it. I had no reason to, then.
“ The dress of the young woman meant nothing;
it was that of thousands of other young women who
go automobiling-handsome tailor-made gown, tan
dust coat. Then I tricked Mr. Curtis—I suppose it is
only fair to use the proper word—into telling me his
story by making him believe he made compromising
admissions while unconscious. I had, I may say, too,
examined his head minutely. I have always main-
tained that the head of a murderer will show a cer-
tain indentation. Mr. Curtis's head did not show
this indentation, neither does Mr. Reid's.
“Mr. Curtis told me the first thing to show that
the knife which killed the girl-I still believed her
Miss Melrose then-could have passed out of his
hands. He said when he leaped from the automobile
he thought he dropped something, searched for it a


202
THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY,
moment, failed to find it, then, being in a hurry, went
on. He called back to Mr. Reid to search for what
he had lost. That is when Mr. Curtis lost the knife;
that is when it passed into the possession of Mr.
Reid. He found it."
Every eye was turned on Reid. He sat as if fas-
cinated, staring into the upward turned face of the
scientist.
“There we had a girl-presumably Miss Melrose
-dead, by a knife owned by Mr. Curtis, last in the
possession of Mr. Reid. Mr. Hatch had previously
told me that the medical examiner said the wound
which killed the girl came from her right, in a gen-
eral direction. Therefore here was a possibility that
Mr. Reid did it in the automobile-a possibility, I
say.
'I asked Mr. Curtis why he tried to recover the
knife from Dr. Leonard. He stammered and fal-
tered, but really it was because, having recognized
the knife, he was afraid the crime would come home
to him. Mr. Curtis denied flatly that the knife was
his, and in denying told me that it was. It was not
Mr. Reid's I was assured. Mr. Curtis also told me
of his love for Miss Melrose, but there was nothing
there, as it appeared, strong enough to suggest a
motive for murder. He mentioned you, Mr. Mac-
Lean, then.
Then Mr. Curtis named Miss Dow as one ·
whose hand had been sought by Mr. Reid. Mr.
Hatch told me this girl-Miss Dow—had eloped the


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 203
night before with Morgan Mason from Monarch
Inn—or, to be exact, that her family had received a
letter from her stating that she was eloping; that
Mason had taken out a marriage license. Remem-
ber this was the girl that Reid was in love with; it
was singular that there should have been a Monarch
Inn end to that elopement as well as to this tragedy.
This meant nothing as bearing on the abstract
problem before me until Mr. Curtis described Miss
Melrose as having golden hair. With another minor
scrap of information Mr. Hatch again opened up
vast possibilities by stating that the medical exami-
ner, a careful man, had said Miss Melrose had dark
hair. I asked him if he had seen the body; he had
not. But the medical examiner told him that. In-
stantly in my mind the question was aroused: Was it
Miss Melrose who was killed? This was merely a
possibility; it still had no great weight with me.
“I asked Mr. Curtis as to the circumstances which
caused his collapse in Winter Street. He explained
it was because he had seen a woman whom he would
have sworn was Miss Melrose if he had not known
that she was dead. This, following the dark hair and
blonde hair puzzle, instantly caused this point to
stand forth sharply in my mind. Was Miss Melrose
dead at all? I had good reason then to believe that
she was not.
Previously, with the idea of fixing for all time
the ownership of the knife-yet knowing in my own
mind it was Mr. Curtis's—I had sent for Mr. Reid.


204 THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
I told him Mr. Curtis had said it was his knife. Mr.
Reid fell into the trap and did the very thing I ex-
pected. He declared angrily the knife was Mr. Cur-
tis's, thinking Curtis had tried to saddle the crime on
him. Then I turned Mr. Curtis over to the police.
When he was locked up I was reasonably certain that
he did not commit any crime, because I had traced the
knife from him to Mr. Reid.”
There was a glitter in Reid's eyes now. It was not
fear, only a nervous battle to restrain himself. The
Thinking Machine went on:
“I saw the body of the dead woman-indeed,
assisted at her autopsy. She was a pronounced bru-
nette-Miss Melrose was a blonde. The mistake in
identity was not an impossible one in view of the fact
that each wore a mask and had her hair tied up under
a veil. That woman was stabbed from the right-
still a possibility of suicide."
“Who was the woman?” demanded Curtis. He
seemed utterly unable to control himself longer.
“Miss Elizabeth Dow, who was supposed to have
eloped with Morgan Mason,” was the quiet reply.
Instant amazement was reflected on every face
save Reid's, and again every eye was turned to him.
Miss Dow's maid burst into tears.
“Mr. Reid knew who the woman was all the
time," said The Thinking Machine. Knowing
then that Miss Dow was the dead woman—this be-
lief being confirmed by a monogram gold belt buckle,
‘E. D.,' on the body—I proceeded to find out all I


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 205
could in this direction. The waiters had seen Mr.
Reid in the inn; had seen him talking to a masked
and veiled lady who had been waiting for nearly an
hour; had seen him go into a room with her, but had
not seen them leave the inn. Mr. Reid had recog-
nized the lady—not she him. How? By a glimpse
of the monogram belt buckle which he knew because
he probably gave it to her.”
“He did," interposed Hatch.
I did,” said Reid, calmly. It was the first time
he had spoken.
“Now, Mr. Reid went into the room and closed
the door, carrying with him Mr. Curtis's knife,
went on The Thinking Machine. “I can't tell you
from personal observation what happened in that
room, but I know. Mr. Reid learned in some way
that Miss Dow was going to elope; he learned that
she had been waiting long past the time when Mason
was due there; that she believed he had humiliated
her by giving up the idea at the last minute. Being
in a highly nervous condition, she lost faith in Mason
and in herself, and perhaps mentioned suicide ? '
She did,” said Reid, calmly.
Go on, Mr. Reid,” suggested The Thinking
Machine.
“I believed, too, that Mason had changed his
mind," the young man continued, with steady voice.
“I pleaded with Miss Dow to give up the idea of
eloping, because, remember, I loved her, too. She
finally consented to go on with our party, as her auto-


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY 207
stantial evidence. Then, when he saw Miss Dow
dead, mistaken for Miss Melrose, he could not cor-
rect the impression without giving himself away. He
was forced to silence.
“I realized these things—not in exact detail as
Mr. Reid has told them, but in a general way-after
my talk with the waiters. Then I set out to find out
why Mason had not appeared. It was possibly due
to accident. On a chance entirely I asked the man in
charge of the gasoline tank at the Monarch if he
had heard of an accident nearby on the night of the
tragedy. He had.
“With Mr. Hatch I found the injured man. A
monogram, ‘M.M.,' on his watch, told me it was
Morgan Mason. Mr. Mason had a serious accident
and still lies unconscious. He was going to meet
Miss Dow when this happened. He had two rail-
road tickets to New York-for himself and bride-
in his pocket.'
Reid still sat staring at The Thinking Machine,
waiting. The others were awed into silence by the
story of the tragedy.
"Having located both Mason and Miss Dow to
my satisfaction, I then sought to find what had be-
come of Miss Melrose. Mr. Reid could have told
me this, but he wouldn't have, because it would have
turned the light on the very thing which he was try-
ing to keep hidden. With Miss Melrose alive, it was
perfectly possible that Curtis had seen her in the
Winter Street store.


THE GREAT AUTO MYSTERY
209
other being the one mailed from the Monarch Inn-
were sent and could not be recalled.”
This strange story was one of the most astonishing
news features the American newspapers ever handled.
Charles Reid was arrested, established his story be-
yond question, and was released. His principal wit-
nesses were Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen,
Jack Curtis and Mrs. Donald MacLean.


THE FLAMING
PHANTOM
I
HUTCHINSON HATCH, reporter, stood beside the
City Editor's desk, smoking and waiting patiently
for that energetic gentleman to dispose of several
matters in hand. City Editors always have several
matters in hand, for the profession of keeping count
of the pulse-beat of the world is a busy one. Finally
this City Editor emerged from a mass of other things
and picked up a sheet of paper on which he had
scribbled some strange hieroglyphics, these repre-
senting his interprétation of the art of writing.
Afraid of ghosts?” he asked.
“Don't know,” Hatch replied, smiling a little.
“I never happened to meet one."
Well, this looks like a good story," the City
Editor explained. “It's a haunted house. Nobody
can live in it; all sorts of strange happenings, demo-
niacal laughter, groans and things. House is owned
by Ernest Weston, a broker. Better jump down and
take a look at it. If it is promising, you might spend
a night in it for a Sunday story. Not afraid, are
you?"
210


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
211
“I never heard of a ghost hurting anyone,
Hatch replied, still smiling a little. “If this one
hurts me it will make the story better.”
Thus attention was attracted to the latest creepy
mystery of a small town by the sea which in
the past had not been wholly lacking in creepy mys-
teries.
Within two hours Hatch was there. He read-
ily found the old Weston house, as it was known,
a two-story, solidly built frame structure, which had
stood for sixty or seventy years high upon a cliff
overlooking the sea, in the center of a land plot of
ten or twelve acres. From a distance it was imposing,
but close inspection showed that, outwardly, at least,
it was a ramshackle affair.
Without having questioned anyone in the village,
Hatch climbed the steep cliff road to the old house,
expecting to find some one who might grant him per-
mission to inspect it. But no one appeared; a settled
melancholy and gloom seemed to overspread it; all
the shutters were closed forbiddingly.
There was no answer to his vigorous knock on
the front door, and he shook the shutters on a win-
dow without result. Then he passed around the
house to the back. Here he found a door and duti-
fully hammered on it. Still no answer. He tried it,
and passed in. He stood in the kitchen, damp, chilly
and darkened by the closed shutters.
One glance about this room and he went on
through a back hall to the dining-room, now de-


212
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
serted, but at one time a comfortable and hand-
somely furnished place. Its hardwood floor was
covered with dust; the chill of disuse was all-perva-
ding. There was no furniture, only the litter which
accumulates of its own accord.
From this point, just inside the dining-room door,
Hatch began a sort of study of the inside architec-
ture of the place. To his left was a door, the but-
ler's pantry. There was a passage through, down
three steps into the kitchen he had just left.
Straight before him, set in the wall, between two
windows, was a large mirror, seven, possibly eight,
feet tall and proportionately wide. A mirror of the
same size was set in the wall at the end of the room
to his left. From the dining-room he passed through
a wide archway into the next room. This archway
made the two rooms almost as one. This second, he
presumed, had been a sort of living-room, but here,
too, was nothing save accumulated litter, an old-
fashioned fireplace and two long mirrors. As he
entered, the fireplace was to his immediate left, one
of the large mirrors was straight ahead of him and
the other was to his right.
Next to the mirror in the end was a passageway of
a little more than usual size which had once been
closed with a sliding door. Hatch went through this
into the reception-hall of the old house. Here, to his
right, was the main hall, connected with the recep-
tion-hall by an archway, and through this archway
he could see a wide, old-fashioned stairway leading


214
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
occupied for several years. The lower part of the
barn, he found, was arranged to house half a dozen
horses and three or four traps.
Nothing here to frighten anybody," was his
mental comment as he left the old place and started
back toward the village. It was three o'clock in the
afternoon. His purpose was to learn then all he
could of the “ghost,” and return that night for
developments.
He sought out the usual village bureau of infor-
mation, the town constable, a grizzled old chap of
sixty years, who realized his importance as the whole
police department, and who had the gossip and infor-
mation, more or less distorted, of several generations
at his tongue's end.
The old man talked for two hours—he was glad
to talk—seemed to have been longing for just such
a glorious opportunity as the reporter offered.
Hatch sifted out what he wanted, those things which
might be valuable in his story.
It seemed, according to the constable, that the
Weston house had not been occupied for five years,
since the death of the father of Ernest Weston,
present owner. Two weeks before the reporter's
appearance there Ernest Weston had come down
with a contractor and looked over the old place.
“We understand here," said the constable, judi-
cially, “that Mr. Weston is going to be married
soon, and we kind of thought he was having the
house made ready for his Summer home again,"


216
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
“ Then they saw the ghost. It was in the recep-
tion-hall, some of 'em said, others said it was in the
library, but anyhow it was there, and the whole gang
left just as fast as they knew how. They slept on
the ground that night. Next day they took out their
things and went back to Boston. Since then nobody
here has heard from 'em.”
What sort of a ghost was it?”
Oh, it was a man ghost, about nine feet high,
and he was blazing from head to foot as if he was
burning up,” said the constable. “He had a long
knife in his hand and waved it at 'em. They didn't
stop to argue. They ran, and as they ran they heard
the ghost a-laughing at them.”
“I should think he would have been amused,"
was Hatch's somewhat sarcastic comment. “Has
anybody who lives in the village seen the ghost?'
“No; we're willing to take their word for it, I
suppose,” was the grinning reply, “because there
never was a ghost there before. I go up and look
over the place every afternoon, but everything seems
to be all right, and I haven't gone there at night.
It's quite a way off my beat," he hastened to explain.
“A man ghost with a long knife,” mused Hatch.
Blazing, seems to be burning up, eh? That sounds
exciting. Now, a ghost who knows his business
never appears except where there has been a murder.
Was there ever a murder in that house?”
When I was a little chap I heard there was a
murder or something there, but I suppose if I don't


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
217
remember it nobody else here does," was the old
man's reply. “It happened one Winter when the
Westons weren't there. There was something, too,
about jewelry and diamonds, but I don't remember
just what it was.'
“ Indeed?” asked the reporter.
* Yes, something about somebody trying to steal
a lot of jewelry—a hundred thousand dollars' worth.
I know nobody ever paid much attention to it. I
just heard about it when I was a boy, and that was at
least fifty years ago.
“I see," said the reporter.
That night at nine o'clock, under cover of perfect
blackness, Hatch climbed the cliff toward the Weston
house. At one o'clock he came racing down the hill,
with frequent glances over his shoulder. His face
was pallid with a fear which he had never known
before and his lips were ashen. Once in his room in
the village hotel Hutchinson Hatch, the nerveless
young man, lighted a lamp with trembling hands and
sat with wide, staring eyes until the dawn broke
through the east.
He had seen the flaming phantom.
II
It was ten o'clock that morning when Hutchinson
Hatch called on Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van
Dusen-The Thinking Machine. The reporter's


218
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
" It's
face was still white, showing that he had slept little,
if at all. The Thinking Machine squinted at him a
moment through his thick glasses, then dropped into
a chair.
Well?” he queried.
“I'm almost ashamed to come to you, Professor,"
Hatch confessed, after a minute, and there was a
little embarrassed hesitation in his speech.
another mystery
Sit down and tell me about it."
Hatch took a seat opposite the scientist.
“ I've been frightened,” he said at last, with a
sheepish grin; “horribly, awfully frightened. I
came to you to know what frightened me."
“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed The Thinking
Machine. “What is it?"
Then Hatch told him from the beginning the
story of the haunted house as he knew it; how he had
examined the house by daylight, just what he had
found, the story of the old murder and the jewels,
the fact that Ernest Weston was to be married. The
scientist listened attentively.
“It was nine o'clock that night when I went to
the house the second time," said Hatch.
“I went
prepared for something, but not for what I saw."
Well, go on,” said the other, irritably.
“I went in while it was perfectly dark. I took a
position on the stairs because I had been told the-
the THING—had been seen from the stairs, and I
thought that where it had been seen once it would be


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
219
seen again. I had presumed it was some trick of a
shadow, or moonlight, or something of the kind. So
I sat waiting calmly. I am not a nervous man-
that is, I never have been until now.
“I took no light of any kind with me. It seemed
an interminable time that I waited, staring into
the reception-room in the general direction of the
library. At last, as I gazed into the darkness, I
heard a noise. It startled me a bit, but it didn't
frighten me, for I put it down to a rat running across
the floor.
“But after awhile I heard the most awful cry a
human being ever listened to. It was neither a moan
nor a shriek-merely a—a cry. Then, as I steadied
my nerves a little, a figure—a blazing, burning white
figure-grew out of nothingness before my very eyes,
in the reception-room. It actually grew and assem-
bled as I looked at it."
He paused, and The Thinking Machine changed
his position slightly.
“The figure was that of a man, apparently, I
should say, eight feet high. Don't think I'm a fool
-I'm not exaggerating. It was all in white and
seemed to radiate a light, a ghostly, unearthly light,
which, as I looked, grew brighter. I saw no face to
the THING, but it had a head. Then I saw an arm
raised and in the hand was a dagger, blazing as was
the figure.
“By this time I was a coward, a cringing, fright-
ened coward—frightened not at what I saw, but at


220
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
the weirdness of it. And then, still as I looked, the
-the THING-raised the other hand, and there,
in the air before my eyes, wrote with his own finger
on the very face of the air, mind you—one word:
• Beware!'
“Was it a man's or woman's writing ?” asked The
Thinking Machine.
The matter-of-fact tone recalled Hatch, who was
again being carried away by fear, and he laughed
vacantly
“I don't know," he said. “I don't know.”
Go on.”
'I have never considered myself a coward, and
certainly I am not a child to be frightened at a thing
which my reason tells me is not possible, and, despite
my fright, I compelled myself to action. If the
THING were a man I was not afraid of it, dagger
and all; if it were not, it could do me no injury.
“I leaped down the three steps to the bottom of
the stairs, and while the THING stood there with
upraised dagger, with one hand pointing at me, I
rushed for it. I think I must have shouted, because
I have a dim idea that I heard my own voice. But
whether or not I did I-"
Again he paused. It was a distinct effort to pull
himself together.
He felt like a child; the cold,
squint eyes of The Thinking Machine were turned
on him disapprovingly.
“ Then—the THING disappeared just as it
seemed I had my hands on it. I was expecting a


THE FLAMING
221
PHANTOM
dagger thrust. Before my eyes, while I was staring
at it, I suddenly saw only half of it. Again I heard
the cry, and the other half disappeared—my hands
grasped empty air.
Where the THING had been there was nothing.
The impetus of my rush was such that I went right
on past the spot where the THING had been, and
found myself groping in the dark in a room which I
didn't place for an instant. Now I know it was the
library
“ By this time I was mad with terror. I smashed
one of the windows and went through it. Then from
there, until I reached my room, I didn't stop running.
I couldn't. I wouldn't have gone back to the recep-
tion-room for all the millions in the world."
The Thinking Machine twiddled his fingers idly;
Hatch sat gazing at him with anxious, eager inquiry
in his
eyes.
So when you ran and the—the THING moved
away or disappeared you found yourself in the
library?” The Thinking Machine asked at last.
“Yes."
“Therefore you must have run from the recep-
tion-room through the door into the library?”
“Yes.”
“You left that door closed that day? "
"Yes.”
Again there was a pause.
Smell anything ?” asked The Thinking Ma-
chine.


222
PHANTOM
THE FLAMING
"No."
“You figure that the THING, as you call it,
must have been just about in the door? ”
“ Yes."
“Too bad you didn't notice the handwriting—that
is, whether it seemed to be a man's or a woman's.'
“I think, under the circumstances, I would be
excused for omitting that,” was the reply.
“You said you heard something that you thought
must be a rat," went on The Thinking Machine.
“What was this?"
“I don't know.'
Any squeak about it? "
“No, not that I noticed."
“Five years since the house was occupied,” mused
the scientist. “How far away is the water?”
“ The place overlooks the water, but it's a steep
climb of three hundred yards from the water to the
house."
That seemed to satisfy The Thinking Machine as
to what actually happened.
“When you went over the house in daylight, did
you notice if any of the mirrors were dusty ?” he
asked.
“I should presume that all were," was the reply.
“There's no reason why they should have been
otherwise."
“But you didn't notice particularly that some were
çot dusty ? " the scientist insisted.
“No. I merely noticed that they were there."


224
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
be met in the yard by the apparition in person.
Again the dagger was seen; again the ghostly laugh-
ter and the awful cry were heard.
“Surrender or I'll shoot,” shouted the constable,
nervously.
A laugh was the answer, and the constable felt
something warm spatter in his face. Others in the
party felt it, too, and wiped their faces and hands.
By the light of the feeble lanterns they carried they
examined their handkerchiefs and hands. Then the
· party fled in awful disorder.
The warmth they had felt was the warmth of
blood-red blood, freshly drawn.
III
Hatch found Ernest Weston at luncheon with an-
other gentleman at one o'clock that day. This other
gentleman was introduced to Hatch as George Wes-
ton, a cousin. Hatch instantly remembered George
Weston for certain eccentric exploits at Newport a
season or so before; and also as one of the heirs of
the original Weston estate.
Hatch thought he remembered, too, that at the
time Miss Everard had been so prominent socially
at Newport George Weston had been her most
ardent suitor. It was rumored that there would have
been an engagement between them, but her father
objected. Hatch looked at him curiously; his face


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
225
was clearly a dissipated one, yet there was about him
the unmistakable polish and gentility of the well-
bred man of society.
Hatch knew Ernest Weston as Weston knew
Hatch; they had met frequently in the ten years
Hatch had been a newspaper reporter, and Weston
had been courteous to him always. The reporter was
in doubt as to whether to bring up the subject on
which he had sought out Ernest Weston, but the
broker brought it up himself, smilingly.
Well, what is it this time?” he asked, genially.
“The ghost down on the South Shore, or my forth-
coming marriage ?
Both,” replied Hatch.
Weston talked freely of his engagement to Miss
Everard, which he said was to have been announced
in another week, at which time she was due to return
to America from Europe. The marriage was to be
three or four months later, the exact date had not
been set.
“And I suppose the country place was being put
in order as a Summer residence ? " the reporter asked.
“Yes. I had intended to make some repairs and
changes there, and furnish it, but now I understand
that a ghost has taken a hand in the matter and has
delayed it. Have you heard much about this ghost
story?” he asked, and there was a slight smile on his
face.
“I have seen the ghost,” Hatch answered.
"You have?" demanded the broker.


226
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
George Weston echoed the words and leaned for-
ward, with a new interest in his eyes, to listen.
Hatch told them what had happened in the haunted
house—all of it. They listened with the keenest
interest, one as eager as the other.
By George !” exclaimed the broker, when Hatch
had finished. “How do you account for it?"
“I don't,” said Hatch, flatly. "I can offer no
possible solution. I am not a child to be tricked by
the ordinary illusion, nor am I of the temperament
which imagines things, but I can offer no explanation
of this.”
It must be a trick of some sort,” said George
Weston.
“I was positive of that,” said Hatch, “but if it
is a trick, it is the cleverest I ever saw.”
The conversation drifted on to the old story of
missing jewels and a tragedy in the house fifty years
before. Now Hatch was asking questions by direc-
tion of The Thinking Machine; he himself hardly
saw their purport, but he asked them.
'Well, the full story of that affair, the tragedy
there, would open up an old chapter in our family
which is nothing to be ashamed of, of course," said
the broker, frankly; “still it is something we have
not paid much attention to for many years. Perhaps
George here knows it better than I do. His mother,
then a bride, heard the recital of the story from my
grandmother."
Ernest Weston and Hatch looked inquiringly at


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
227
George Weston, who lighted a fresh cigarette and
leaned over the table toward them. He was an
excellent talker.
“ I've heard my mother tell of it, but it was a long
time ago,” he began. “It seems, though, as I re-
member it, that my great-grandfather, who built the
house, was a wealthy man, as fortunes went in those
days, worth probably a million dollars.
“A part of this fortune, say about one hundred
thousand dollars, was in jewels, which had come with
the family from England. Many of those pieces
would be of far greater value now than they were
then, because of their antiquity. It was only on state
occasions, I might say, when these were worn, say,
once a year.
“Between times the problem of keeping them
safely was a difficult one, it appeared. This was
before the time of safety deposit vaults. My grand-
father conceived the idea of hiding the jewels in the
old place down on the South Shore, instead of keep-
ing them in the house he had in Boston. He took
them there accordingly.
“At this time one was compelled to travel down
the South Shore, below Cohasset anyway, by stage-
coach. My grandfather's family was then in the
city, as it was Winter, so he made the trip alone.
He planned to reach there at night, so as not to
attract attention to himself, to hide the jewels about
the house, and leave that same night for Boston again
by a relay of horses he had arranged for. Just what


228
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
happened after he left the stagecoach, below Cohas-
set, no one ever knew except by surmise.”
The speaker paused a moment and relighted his
cigarette.
“Next morning my great-grandfather was found
unconscious and badly injured on the veranda of the
house. His skull had been fractured. In the house
a man was found dead. No one knew who he was;
no one within a radius of many miles of the place
had ever seen him.
“ This led to all sorts of surmises, the most rea-
sonable of which, and the one which the family has
always accepted, being that my grandfather had gone
to the house in the dark, had there met some one who
was stopping there that night as a shelter from the
intense cold, that this man learned of the jewels, that
he had tried robbery and there was a fight.
“In this fight the stranger was killed inside the
house, and my great-grandfather, injured, had tried
to leave the house for aid. He collapsed on the
veranda where he was found and died without hav-
ing regained consciousness. That's all we know or
can surmise reasonably about the matter."
“Were the jewels ever found?” asked the
reporter.
“No. They were not on the dead man, nor were
they in the possession of my grandfather.”
“ It is reasonable to suppose, then, that there was
a third man and that he got away with the jewels ? "
asked Ernest Weston.
“ It seemed so, and for a long time this theory was


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
229
accepted. I suppose it is now, but some doubt was
cast on it by the fact that only two trails of footsteps
led to the house and none out. There was a heavy
snow on the ground. If none led out it was obviously
impossible that anyone came out.”
Again there was silence. Ernest Weston sipped
his coffee slowly.
“ It would seem from that," said Ernest Weston,
at last, " that the jewels were hidden before the
tragedy, and have never been found.”
George Weston smiled.
“Off and on for twenty years the place was
searched, according to my mother's story,” he said.
Every inch of the cellar was dug up; every possible
nook and corner was searched. Finally the entire
matter passed out of the minds of those who knew
of it, and I doubt if it has ever been referred to
again until now.”
“ A search even now would be almost worth while,
wouldn't it?" asked the broker.
George Weston laughed aloud.
' It might be,” he said, “but I have some doubt.
A thing that was searched for for twenty years would
not be easily found.”
So it seemed to strike the others after awhile and
the matter was dropped.
“But this ghost thing," said the broker, at last.
' I'm interested in that. Suppose we make up a
ghost party and go down to-night. My contractor
declares he can't get men to work there."
“I would be glad to go," said George Weston,


230
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
“ but I'm running over to the Vandergrift ball in
Providence to-night.”
“How about you, Hátch?” asked the broker.
" I'll go, yes,” said Hatch, as one of several,"
he added with a smile.
Well, then, suppose we say the constable and
you and I?” asked the broker; “to-night?”
* All right."
After making arrangements to meet the broker
later that afternoon he rushed away-away to The
Thinking Machine. The scientist listened, then re-
sumed some chemical test he was making.
“ Can't you go down with us to-night?” Hatch
asked.
“No," said the other. “ I'm going to read a
paper before a scientific society and prove that a
chemist in Chicago is a fool. That will take me all
evening."
“ Tomorrow night?” Hatch insisted.
• No—the next night.”
This would be on Friday night-just in time for
the feature which had been planned for Sunday.
Hatch was compelled to rest content with this, but
he foresaw that he would have it all, with a solution.
It never occurred to him that this problem, or, in-
deed, that any problem, was beyond the mental
capacity of Professor Van Dusen.
Hatch and Ernest Weston took a night train that
evening, and on th
their arrival in the village stirred up
the town constable,


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
231
“Will you go with us ? ” was the question.
Both of you going?” was the counter-question.
" Yes.”
" I'll go,” said the constable promptly. “Ghost ! ”
and he laughed scornfully. “I'll have him in the
lockup by morning."
“No shooting, now," warned Weston.
“There
must be somebody back of this somewhere; we under-
stand that, but there is no crime that we know of.
The worst is possibly trespassing."
“I'll get him all right,” responded the constable,
who still remembered the experience where blood
warm blood-had been thrown in his face. “And
I'm not so sure there isn't a crime."
That night about ten the three men went into the
dark, forbidding house and took a station on the
stairs where Hatch had sat when he saw the THING
—whatever it was. There they waited. The con-
stable moved nervously from time to time, but neither
of the others paid any attention to him.
At last the—the THING appeared. There had
been a preliminary sound as of something running
across the floor, then suddenly a flaming figure of
white seemed to grow into being in the reception-
It was exactly as Hatch had described it to
The Thinking Machine.
Dazed, stupefied, the three men looked, looked as
the figure raised a hand, pointing toward them, and
wrote a word in the air--positively in the air. The
finger merely waved, and there, floating before them,
room.


232
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
were letters, flaming letters, in the utter darkness.
This time the word was: “ Death."
Faintly, Hatch, fighting with a fear which again
seized him, remembered that The Thinking Ma-
chine had asked him if the handwriting was that of a
man or woman; now he tried to see. It was as if
drawn on a blackboard, and there was a queer twist
to the loop at the bottom. He sniffed to see if there
was an odor of any sort. There was not.
Suddenly he felt some quick, vigorous action from
the constable behind him. There was a roar and a
flash in his ear; he knew the constable had fired at
the THING. Then came the
cry and laugh-almost
a laugh of derision—he had heard them before. For
one instant the figure lingered and then, before their
eyes, faded again into utter blackness. Where it had
been was nothing—nothing.
The constable's shot had had no effect.
IV
THREE deeply mystified men passed down the hill
to the village from the old house. Ernest Weston,
the owner, had not spoken since before the—the
THING appeared there in the reception-room, or
was it in the library? He was not certain—he
couldn't have told. Suddenly he turned to the
constable.
“ I told you not to shoot."


234
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
went straight to The Thinking Machine with the
latest developments. The scientist paused just long
enough in his work to hear it.
Did
you
notice the handwriting?” he demanded.
“Yes," was the reply; " so far as I could notice
the style of a handwriting that floated in air.'
“Man's or woman's ?"
Hatch was puzzled.
“I couldn't judge,” he said. " It seemed to be a
bold style, whatever it was. I remember the capital
D clearly.”
“Was it anything like the handwriting of the
broker-what's-his-name?—Ernest Weston ?"
“I never saw his handwriting.”
“Look at some of it, then, particularly the capital
D's," instructed The Thinking Machine. Then,
after a pause:
the figure is white and seems
to be flaming?"
"Yes."
“Does it give out any light? That is, does it light
up a room, for instance?"
“I don't quite know what you mean.'
When you go into a room with a lamp,” ex-
plained The Thinking Machine, “it lights the room.
Does this thing do it? Can you see the floor or walls
or anything by the light of the figure itself ? "
“No," replied Hatch, positively.
“I'll go down with you to-morrow night,” said the
scientist, as if that were all.
Thanks,” replied Hatch, and he went away.
You say


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
237
the way The Thinking Machine asked a few ques-
tions, but most of the time he was silent, squinting
out the window. Hatch respected his silence, and
only answered questions.
“Did you see Ernest Weston's handwriting?'
was the first of these.
“ Yes."
The capital D's?”
They are not unlike the one the-the THING
wrote, but they are not wholly like it,” was the reply.
“Do you know anyone in Providence who can get
some information for you ? " was the next query.
"Yes."
Get him by long-distance 'phone when we get to
this place and let me talk to him a moment."
Half an hour later The Thinking Machine was
talking over the long-distance 'phone to the Provi-
dence correspondent of Hatch's paper. What he
said or what he learned there was not revealed to
the wondering reporter, but he came out after sev-
eral minutes, only to re-enter the booth and remain
for another half an hour.
“Now," he said.
Together they went to the haunted house. At the
entrance to the grounds something else occurred to
The Thinking Machine.
“Run over to the 'phone and call Weston,” he
directed. “Ask him if he has a motor-boat or if his
cousin has one. We might need one." Also find out
what kind of a boat it is—electric or gasoline.'


238
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
Hatch returned to the village and left the scientist
alone, sitting on the veranda gazing out over the sea.
When Hatch returned he was still in the same
position.
“Well?” he asked.
“Ernest Weston has no motor-boat," the reporter
informed him. “George Weston has an electric,
but we can't get it because it is away. Maybe I can
get one somewhere else if you particularly want it."
“Never mind," said The Thinking Machine. He
spoke as if he had entirely lost interest in the matter.
Together they started around the house to the
kitchen door.
“What's the next move?" asked Hatch.
" I'm going to find the jewels," was the startling
reply.
“ Find them?” Hatch repeated.
“ Certainly."
They entered the house through the kitchen and
the scientist squinted this way and that, through the
reception-room, the library, and finally the back hall-
way. Here a closed door in the flooring led to a
cellar.
In the cellar they found heaps of litter. It was
damp and chilly and dark. The Thinking Machine
stood in the center, or as near the center as he could
stand, because the base of the chimney occupied
this precise spot, and apparently did some mental
calculation.
From that point he started around the walls,


240
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
Thinking Machine, who stared at him in mild
surprise.
“What's the matter? " inquired the scientist.
“Nothing," Hatch assured him, but again he
laughed.
The heavy stone which had been pulled out of
place was lifted up and forced back into position,
and together they returned to the village, with the
long-lost jewelry loose in their pockets.
“How did you do it?" asked Hatch.
“Two and two always make four," was the enig-
matic reply. “It was merely a sum in addition.”
There was a pause as they walked on, then:" Don't
say anything about finding this, or even hint at it in
any way, until you have my permission to do so."
Hatch had no intention of doing so. In his mind's
eye he saw a story, a great, vivid, startling story
spread all over his newspaper about flaming phan-
toms and treasure trove-$100,000 in jewels. It
staggered him. Of course he would say nothing
about it-even hint at it, yet. But when he did say
something about it!
In the village The Thinking Machine found the
constable.
“ I understand some blood was thrown on you at
the Weston place the other night ? "
“Yes. Blood warm blood."
"You wiped it off with your handkerchief ? "
" Yes."
Have
you
the handkerchief?”
1


THE FLAMING
241
PHANTOM
I
suppose I might get it," was the doubtful reply.
“ It might have gone into the wash.”
Astute person,” remarked The Thinking Ma-
chine. “There might have been a crime and you
throw away the one thing which would indicate it-
the blood stains.”
The constable suddenly took notice.
By ginger!” he said. · Wait here and I'll go
see if I can find it."
He disappeared and returned shortly with the
handkerchief. There were half a dozen blood stains
on it, now dark brown.
The Thinking Machine dropped into the village
drug store and had a short conversation with the
owner, after which he disappeared into the com-
pounding room at the back and remained for an hour
or more-until darkness set in. Then he came out
and joined Hatch, who, with the constable, had been
waiting
The reporter did not ask any questions, and The
Thinking Machine volunteered no information.
“ Is it too late for anyone to get down from Bos-
ton to-night?” he asked the constable.
'No. He could take the eight o'clock train and
be here about half-past nine."
“Mr. Hatch, will you wire to Mr. Weston-
Ernest Weston—and ask him to come to-night, sure.
Impress on him the fact that it is a matter of the
greatest importance."
Instead of telegraphing, Hatch went to the tele-


242
PHANTOM
THE FLAMING
phone and spoke to Weston at his club. The trip
would interfere with some other plans, the broker
explained, but he would come. The Thinking Ma-
chine had meanwhile been conversing with the con-
stable and had given some sort of instructions which
evidently amazed that official exceedingly, for he kept
repeating “ By ginger!" with considerable fervor.
And not one word or hint of it to anyone,” said
The Thinking Machine. “ Least of all to the mem-
bers of your family."
By ginger ! " was the response, and the constable
went to supper.
The Thinking Machine and Hatch had their sup-
per thoughtfully that evening in the little village
hotel.” Only once did Hatch break this silence.
“You told me to see Weston's handwriting," he
said. “Of course you knew he was with the consta-
ble and myself when we saw the THING, therefore
it would have been impossible-
“Nothing is impossible,” broke in The Thinking
Machine. “Don't say that, please.”
“I mean that, as he was with us-
“We'll end the ghost story to-night,” interrupted
the scientist.
Ernest Weston arrived on the nine-thirty train
and had a long, earnest conversation with The Think-
ing Machine, while Hatch was permitted to cool his
toes in solitude. At last they joined the reporter.
“Take a revolver by all means," instructed The
Thinking Machine.


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
243
“Do you think that necessary?” asked Weston.
“ It is—absolutely," was the emphatic response.
Weston left them after awhile. Hatch wondered
where he had gone, but no information was forth-
coming. In a general sort of way
he knew that The
Thinking Machine was to go to the haunted house,
but he didn't know when; he didn't even know if he
was to accompany him.
At last they started, The Thinking Machine swing-
ing a hammer he had borrowed from his landlord.
The night was perfectly black, even the road at their
feet was invisible. They stumbled frequently as they
walked on up the cliff toward the house, dimly stand-
ing out against the sky. They entered by way of the
kitchen, passed through to the stairs in the main hall,
and there Hatch indicated in the darkness the spot
from which he had twice seen the flaming phantom.
“You go in the drawing-room behind here,” The
Thinking Machine instructed.
Don't make any
noise whatever."
For hours they waited, neither seeing the other.
Hatch heard his heart thumping heavily; if only he
could see the other man; with an effort he recovered
from a rapidly growing nervousness and waited,
waited. The Thinking Machine sat perfectly rigid
on the stair, the hammer in his right hand, squinting
steadily through the darkness.
At last he heard a noise, a slight nothing; it might
almost have been his imagination. It was as if some-
thing had glided across the floor, and he was more


244
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
THE
alert than ever. Then came the dread misty light
in the reception-hall, or was it in the library? He
could not say. But he looked, looked, with every
sense alert.
Gradually the light grew and spread, a misty
whiteness which was unmistakably light, but which
did not illuminate anything around it. The Thinking
Machine saw it without the tremor of a nerve; saw
the mistiness grow more marked in certain places,
saw these lines gradually grow into the figure of a
person, a person who was the center of a white light.
Then the mistiness fell away and The Thinking
Machine saw the outline in bold relief. It was that
of a tall figure, clothed in a robe, with head covered
by a sort of hood, also luminous. As The Thinking
Machine looked he saw an arm raised, and in the
hand he saw a dagger. The attitude of the figure
was distinctly a threat. And yet The Thinking Ma-
chine had not begun to grow nervous; he was only
interested.
As he looked, the other hand of the apparition was
raised and seemed to point directly at him. It moved
through the air in bold sweeps, and The Thinking
Machine saw the word “ Death," written in air lumi-
nously, swimming before his eyes. Then he blinked
incredulously.
There came
a wild, demoniacal
shriek of laughter from somewhere. Slowly, slowly
the scientist crept down the steps in his stocking feet,
silent as the apparition itself, with the hammer still
in his hand. He crept on, on toward the figure.


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
245
Hatch, not knowing the movements of The Thinking
Machine, stood waiting for something, he didn't
know what. Then the thing he had been waiting for
happened. There was a sudden loud clatter as of
broken glass, the phantom and writing faded, crum-
bled up, disappeared, and somewhere in the old house
there was the hurried sound of steps. At last the
reporter heard his name called quietly. It was The
Thinking Machine.
“Mr. Hatch, come here."
The reporter started, blundering through the
darkness toward the point whence the voice had
come. Some irresistible thing swept down upon him;
a crashing blow descended on his head, vivid lights
flashed before his eyes; he fell. After awhile, from
a great distance, it seemed, he heard faintly a pistol
shot.
VI
WHEN Hatch fully recovered consciousness it was
with the flickering light of a match in his eyes—a
match in the hand of The Thinking Machine, who
squinted anxiously at him as he grasped his left wrist.
Hatch, instantly himself again, sat up suddenly.
“What's the matter?.” he demanded.
“How's your head?” came the answering ques-
tion.
Oh,” and Hatch suddenly recalled those inci-


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
247
happen to be a doctor; I can aid him. Don't come
unless I call."
For a long while the constable and the reporter
waited. The constable talked, talked with all the
bottled-up vigor of days. Hatch listened impa-
tiently; he was eager to go down there where The
Thinking Machine and Weston and the phantom
were.
After half an hour the light disappeared, then he
heard the swift, quick churning of waters, a sound as
of a powerful motor-boat maneuvering, and a long
body shot out on the waters.
“ All right down there?” Hatch called.
· All right,” came the response.
There was again silence, then Ernest Weston and
The Thinking Machine came up.
Where is the other man?” asked Hatch.
The ghost—where is he ? " echoed the constable.
“He escaped in the motor-boat," replied Mr.
Weston, easily.
“Escaped ? ” exclaimed Hatch and the constable
together.
“Yes, escaped," repeated The Thinking Machine,
irritably. “Mr. Hatch, let's go to the hotel.”
Struggling with a sense of keen disappointment,
Hatch followed the other two men silently. The
constable walked beside him, also silent. At last
they reached the hotel and bade the constable, a
sadly puzzled, bewildered and crestfallen man, good-
night.


248
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
By ginger!” he remarked, as he walked away
into the dark.
Upstairs the three men sat, Hatch impatiently
waiting to hear the story. Weston lighted a cigar-
ette and lounged back; The Thinking Machine
sat with finger tips pressed together, studying the
ceiling.
“Mr. Weston, you understand, of course, that I
came into this thing to aid Mr. Hatch?” he asked.
“Certainly,” was the response. “I will only ask
a favor of him when you conclude."
The Thinking Machine changed his position
slightly, readjusted his thick glasses for a long, com-
fortable squint, and told the story, from the begin-
ning, as he always told a story. Here it is:
Mr. Hatch came to me in a state of abject, cring-
ing fear and told me of the mystery. It would be
needless to go over his examination of the house, and
all that. It is enough to say that he noted and told
me of four large mirrors in the dining-room and
living-room of the house; that he heard and brought
to me the stories in detail of a tragedy in the old
house and missing jewels, valued at a hundred thou-
sand dollars, or more.
“He told me of his trip to the house that night,
and of actually seeing the phantom. I have found
in the past that Mr. Hatch is a cool, level-headed
young man, not given to imagining things which are
not there, and controls himself well. Therefore I
knew that anything of charlatanism must be clever,


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
249
exceedingly clever, to bring about such a condition of
mind in him.
“Mr. Hatch saw, as others had seen, the figure of
a phantom in the reception-room near the door of
the library, or in the library near the door of the
reception-room, he couldn't tell exactly. He knew
it was near the door. Preceding the appearance of
the figure he heard a slight noise which he attributed
to a rat running across the floor. Yet the house had
not been occupied for five years. Rodents rarely re-
main in a house-I may say never--for that long if
it is uninhabited. Therefore what was this noise ?
A noise made by the apparition itself? How?
Now, there is only one white light of the kind
Mr. Hatch described known to science. It seems
almost superfluous to name it. It is phosphorus,
compounded with Fuller's earth and glycerine and
one or two other chemicals, so it will not instantly
flame as it does in the pure state when exposed to
air. Phosphorus has a very pronounced odor if one
is within, say, twenty feet of it. Did Mr. Hatch
smell anything? No.
“Now, here we have several facts, these being that
the apparition in appearing made a slight noise; that
phosphorus was the luminous quality; that Mr.
Hatch did not smell phosphorus even when he ran
through the spot where the phantom had appeared.
Two and two make four; Mr. Hatch saw phos-
phorus, passed through the spot where he had seen
it, but did not smell it, therefore it was not there. It


250
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
was a reflection he saw—a reflection of phosphorus.
So far, so good.
“Mr. Hatch saw a finger lifted and write a lumi-
nous word in the air. Again he did not actually see
this; he saw a reflection of it. This first impression
of mine was substantiated by the fact that when he
rushed for the phantom a part of it disappeared, first
half of it, he said—then the other half. So his
extended hands grasped only air.
“Obviously those reflections had been made on
something, probably a mirror as the most perfect
ordinary reflecting surface. Yet he actually passed
through the spot where he had seen the apparition
and had not struck a mirror. He found himself in
another room, the library, having gone through a
door which, that afternoon, he had himself closed.
He did not open it then.
Instantly a sliding mirror suggested itself to me
to fit all these conditions. He saw the apparition in
the door, hen saw only half of it, then all of it dis-
appeared. He passed through the spot where it had
been. All of this would have happened easily if a
large mirror, working as a sliding door, and hidden
in the wall, were there. Is it clear?"
Perfectly,” said Mr. Weston.
“Yes,” said Hatch, eagerly. “Go on.”
“This sliding mirror, too, might have made the
noise which Mr. Hatch imagined was a rat. Mr.
Hatch had previously told me of four large mirrors
in the living- and dining-rooms. With these, from


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
251
the position in which he said they were, I readily saw
how the reflection could have been made.
“In a general sort of way, in my own mind, I had
accounted for the phantom. Why was it there? This
seemed a more difficult problem. It was possible
that it had been put there for amusement, but I did
not wholly accept this. Why? Partly because no
one had ever heard of it until the Italian workmen
went there. Why did it appear just at the moment
they went to begin the work Mr. Weston had
ordered? Was it the purpose to keep the workmen
away?
These questions arose in my mind in order.
Then, as Mr. Hatch had told me of a tragedy in the
house and hidden jewels, I asked him to learn more of
these. I called his attention to the fact that it would
be a queer circumstance if these jewels were still
somewhere in the old house. Suppose some one
who knew of their existence were searching for them,
believed he could find them, and wanted something
which would effectually drive away any inquiring
persons, tramps or villagers, who might appear there
at night. A ghost? Perhaps.
Suppose some one wanted to give the old house
such a reputation that Mr. Weston would not care
to undertake the work of repair and refurnishing.
A ghost? Again perhaps. In a shallow mind this
ghost might have been interpreted even as an effort
to prevent the marriage of Miss Everard and Mr.
Weston. Therefore Mr. Hatch was instructed to
1


252
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
get all the facts possible about you, Mr. Weston,
and members of your family. I reasoned that mem-
bers of your own family would be more likely to
know of the lost jewels than anyone else after a
lapse of fifty years.
Well, what Mr. Hatch learned from you and
your cousin, George Weston, instantly, in my mind,
established a motive for the ghost. It was, as I had
supposed possible, an effort to drive workmen away,
perhaps only for a time, while a search was
made for the jewels. The old tragedy in the house
was a good pretext to hang a ghost on. A clever
mind conceived it and a clever mind put it into
operation.
Now, what one person knew most about the
jewels? Your cousin George, Mr. Weston. Had
he recently acquired any new information as to these
jewels? I didn't know. I thought it possible.
Why? On his own statement that his mother, then
a bride, got the story of the entire affair direct from
his grandmother, who remembered more of it than
anybody else—who might even have heard his grand-
father say where he intended hiding the jewels.”
The Thinking Machine paused for a little while,
shifted his position, then went on:
George Weston refused to go with you, Mr.
Weston, and Mr. Hatch, to the ghost party, as you
called it, because he said he was going to a ball in
Providence that night. He did not go to Provi-
dence; I learned that from your correspondent there,


THE FLAMING PHANTOM
253
Mr. Hatch; so George Weston might, possibly, have
gone to the ghost party after all.
After I looked over the situation down there
it occurred to me that the most feasible way for a
person, who wished to avoid being seen in the village,
as the perpetrator of the ghost did, was to go to and
from the place at night in a motor-boat. He could
easily run in the dark and land at the foot of the
cliff, and no soul in the village would be any the
wiser. Did George Weston have a motor-boat?
Yes, an electric, which runs almost silently.
“From this point the entire matter was compara-
tively simple. I knew-the pure logic of it told me
-how the ghost was made to appear and disappear;
one look at the house inside convinced me beyond
all doubt. I knew the motive for the ghost-a
search for the jewels. I knew, or thought I knew,
the name of the man who was seeking the jewels; the
man who had fullest knowledge and fullest opportu-
nity, the man whose brain was clever enough to
devise the scheme. Then, the next step to prove
what I knew. The first thing to do was to find the
jewels."
Find the jewels ? " Weston repeated, with a
slight smile.
Here they are,” said The Thinking Machine,
quietly.
And there, before the astonished eyes of the
broker, he drew out the gems which had been lost for
fifty years. Mr. Weston was not amazed; he was


254
THE FLAMING PHANTOM
petrified with astonishment and sat staring at the
glittering heap in silence. Finally he recovered his
voice.
“How did you do it ? ” he demanded. “Where?”
“I used my brain, that's all," was the reply. “I
went into the old house seeking them where the
owner, under all conditions, would have been most
likely to hide them, and there I found them."
“But-but-" stammered the broker.
“ The man who hid these jewels hid them only
temporarily, or at least that was his purpose," said
The Thinking Machine, irritably. “Naturally he
would not hide them in the woodwork of the house,
because that might burn; he did not bury them in
the cellar, because that has been carefully searched.
Now, in that house there is nothing except woodwork
and chimneys above the cellar. Yet he hid them in
the house, proven by the fact that the man he killed
was killed in the house, and that the outside ground,
covered with snow, showed two sets of tracks into
the house and none out. Therefore he did hide them
in the cellar. Where? In the stonework. There
was no other place.
Naturally he would not hide them on a level
with the eye, because the spot where he took out and
replaced a stone would be apparent if a close search
were made. He would, therefore, place them either
above or below the eye level. He placed them above.
A large loose stone in the chimney was taken out
and there was the box with these things."


THE FLAMING
257
PHANTOM
to anyone who might see the last reflection in the
reception-hall.”
“And the blood thrown on the constable and the
others when the ghost was in the yard?” Hatch
went on.
Was from a dog. A test I made in the drug
store showed that. It was a desperate effort to drive
the villagers away and keep them away. The ghost
cat and the tying of the watchman to his bed were
easily done."
All sat silent for a time. At length Mr. Weston
arose, thanked the scientist for the recovery of the
jewels, bade them all good-night and was about to go
out. Mechanically Hatch was following. At the
door he turned back for the last question.
How was it that the shot the constable fired
didn't break the mirror ?”
“Because he was nervous and the bullet struck the
door beside the mirror," was the reply. “I dug it
out with a knife. Good-night.”


THE RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
I
With expert fingers Phillip Dunston, receiving teller,
verified the last package of one-hundred-dollar bills
he had made up—ten thousand dollars in all—and
tossed it over on the pile beside him, while he checked
off a memorandum. It was correct; there were eigh-
teen packages of bills, containing $107,231. Then
he took the bundles, one by one, and on each placed
his initials, “ P. D.” This was a system of checking
in the Ralston National Bank.
It was care in such trivial details, perhaps, that
had a great deal to do with the fact that the Ralston
National had advanced from a small beginning to
the first rank of those banks which were financial
powers. President Quinton Fraser had inaugurated
the system under which the Ralston National had so
prospered, and now, despite his seventy-four years,
he was still its active head. For fifty years he had
been in its employ; for thirty-five years of that time
he had been its president.
Publicly the aged banker was credited with the
possession of a vast fortune, this public estimate being
258


RALSTON
259
BANK BURGLARY
based on large sums he had given to charity. But
as a matter of fact the private fortune of the old
man, who had no one to share it save his wife, was
not large; it was merely a comfortable living sum
for an aged couple of simple tastes.
Dunston gathered up the packages of money
and
took them into the cashier's private office, where he
dumped them on the great flat-top desk at which that
official, Randolph West, sat figuring. The cashier
thrust the sheet of paper on which he had been work-
ing into his pocket and took the memorandum which
Dunston offered.
“ All right?” he asked.
"It tallies perfectly,” Dunston replied.
Thanks. You may go now.'
It was an hour after closing time. Dunston was
just pulling on his coat when he saw West come out
of his private office with the money to put it away
in the big steel safe which stood between depositors
and thieves. The cashier paused a moment to allow
the janitor, Harris, to sweep the space in front of
the safe. It was the late afternoon scrubbing and
sweeping.
“Hurry up," the cashier complained, impatiently.
Harris hurried, and West placed the money in the
safe. There were eighteen packages.
“All right, sir?” Dunston inquired.
“Yes."
West was disposing of the last bundle when Miss
Clarke-Louie Clarke-private secretary to Presi-


260
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
dent Fraser, came out of his office with a long
envelope in her hand. Dunston glanced at her and
she smiled at him.
“Please, Mr. West,” she said to the cashier,
“Mr. Fraser told me before he went to put these
papers in the safe. I had almost forgotten.”
She glanced into the open safe and her pretty blue
eyes opened wide. Mr. West took the envelope,
stowed it away with the money without a word, the
girl looking on interestedly, and then swung the
heavy door closed. She turned away with a quick,
reassuring smile at Dunston, and disappeared inside
the private office.
West had shot the bolts of the safe into place and
had taken hold of the combination dial to throw it
on, when the street door opened and President Fraser
entered hurriedly.
Just a moment, West,” he called. 'Did Miss
Clarke give you an envelope to go in there?”
“Yes. I just put it in.”
“One moment,” and the aged president came
through a gate which Dunston held open and went
to the safe. The cashier pulled the steel door open,
unlocked the
money compartment where the envelope
had been placed, and the president took it out.
West turned and spoke to Dunston, leaving the
president looking over the contents of the envelope.
When the cashier turned back to the safe the presi-
dent was just taking his hand away from his inside
coat pocket.


264
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
II
PRESIDENT FRASER reached the bank at ten o'clock
and was informed of the robbery. He retired to his
office, and there he sat, apparently stunned into inac-
tivity by the blow, his head bowed on his arms.
Miss Clarke, at her typewriter, frequently glanced
at the aged figure with an expression of pity on her
face. Her
eyes
seemed
weary, too. Outside, through
the closed door, they could hear the detectives.
From time to time employees of the bank and
detectives entered the office to ask questions. The
banker answered as if dazed; then the board of
directors met and voted to personally make good the
loss sustained. There was no uneasiness among de-
positors, because they knew the resources of the bank
were practically unlimited.
Cashier West was not arrested. The directors
wouldn't listen to such a thing; he had been cashier
for eighteen years, and they trusted him implicitly.
Yet he could offer no possible explanation of how his
handkerchief had come there. He asserted stoutly
that he had not been in the bank from the moment
Miss Clarke and Dunston saw him leave it.
After investigation the police placed the burglary
to the credit of certain expert cracksmen, identity
unknown. A general alarm, which meant a rounding
up of all suspicious persons, was sent out, and this
drag-net was expected to bring important facts to


266
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
through the 'phone. Then he turned back to
West.
“He'll come,” he said, with an air of relief. “I
was able to do him a favor once by putting an inven-
tion on the market."
Within an hour The Thinking Machine, accom-
panied by Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, appeared.
President Fraser knew the scientist well, but on West
the strange figure made a startling, almost uncanny,
impression. Every known fact was placed before
The Thinking Machine. He listened without com-
ment, then arose and wandered aimlessly about the
offices. The employees were amused by his manner;
Hatch was a silent looker-on.
“Where was the handkerchief found?” de-
manded The Thinking Machine, at last.
Here," replied West, and he indicated the exact
spot.
Any draught through the office-ever?"
“None. We have a patent ventilating system
which prevents that.”
The Thinking Machine squinted for several min-
utes at the window which had been unfastened-the
window in the cashier's private room—with the steel
bars guarding it, now torn out of their sockets, and
at the chalklike softness of the granite about the
sockets. After awhile he turned to the president and
cashier.
“Where is the handkerchief?”
“In my desk,” Fraser replied. The police


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
267
thought it of no consequence, save, perhaps—per-
haps" and he looked at West.
Except that it might implicate me," said West,
hotly.
“Tut, tut, tut,” said Fraser, reprovingly. “No
one thinks for a-
“Well, well, the handkerchief?” interrupted The
Thinking Machine, in annoyance.
“Come into my office,” suggested the president.
The Thinking Machine started in, saw a woman-
Miss Clarke, who had returned from luncheon-and
stopped. There was one thing on earth he was
afraid of—a woman.
Bring it out here,” he requested.
President Fraser brought it and placed it in the
slender hands of the scientist, who examined it closely
by a window, turning it over and over. At last he
sniffed at it. There was the faint, clinging odor of
violet perfume. Then abruptly, irrelevantly, he
turned to Fraser.
“How many women employed in the bank ?” he
asked.
Three," was the reply;“ Miss Clarke, who is my
secretary, and two general stenographers in the outer
office.”
“How many men ?"
Fourteen, including myself.
If the president and Cashier West had been s'ır-
prised at the actions of The Thinking Machine up
to this point, now they were amazed. He thrust the


268
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
handkerchief at Hatch, took his own handkerchief,
briskly scrubbed his hands with it, and also passed
that to Hatch.
Keep those," he commanded.
He sniffed at his hands, then walked into the outer
office, straight toward the desk of one of the young
women stenographers. He leaned over her, and
asked one question:
“What system of shorthand do you
write?”
“Pitman," was the astonished reply.
The scientist sniffed. Yes, it was unmistakably a
sniff. He left her suddenly and went to the other
stenographer. Precisely the same thing happened;
standing close to her he asked one question, and at
her answer sniffed. Miss Clarke passed through the
outer office to mail a letter. She, too, had to answer
the question as the scientist squinted into her eyes,
and sniffed.
Ah," he said, at her answer.
Then from one to another of the employees of the
bank he went, asking each a few questions. By this
time a murmur of amusement was running through
the office. Finally The Thinking Machine ap-
proached the cage in which sat Dunston, the receiv-
ing teller. The young man was bent over his work,
absorbed.
“How long have you been employed here?” asked
the scientist, suddenly.
Dunston started and glanced around quickly.
Five ” he responded.
years,"


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
269
“ It must be hot work," said The Thinking Ma-
chine. “You're perspiring.'
“Am I?" inquired the young man, smilingly.
He drew a crumpled handkerchief from his hip
pocket, shook it out, and wiped his forehead.
“Ah!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine, sud-
denly.
He had caught the faint, subtle perfume of violets
-an odor identical with that on the handkerchief
found in front of the safe.
III
THE THINKING MACHINE led the way back to the
private office of the cashier, with President Fraser,
Cashier West and Hatch following.
Is it possible for anyone to overhear us here?”
he asked.
“No," replied the president. “The directors
meet here."
“ Could anyone outside hear that, for instance ? "
and with a sudden sweep of his hand he upset a heavy
chair.
“I don't know," was the astonished reply.
Why?"
The Thinking Machine went quickly to the door,
opened it softly and peered out. Then he closed the
door again.
"I suppose I may speak with absolute frankness?"
he inquired.


270
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
Certainly,” responded the old banker, almost
startled. Certainly."
“You have presented an abstract problem,” The
Thinking Machine went on, “and I presume you
want a solution of it, no matter where it hits ?”
“Certainly,” the president again assured him, but
his tone expressed a grave, haunting fear.
“ In that case," and The Thinking Machine turned
to the reporter," Mr. Hatch, I want you to ascer-
tain several things for me. First, I want to know if
Miss Clarke uses or has ever used violet perfume-
if so, when she ceased using it.”
“Yes,” said the reporter. The bank officials
exchanged wondering looks.
* Also, Mr. Hatch," and the scientist squinted with
his strange eyes straight into the face of the cashier,
go to the home of Mr. West, here, see for yourself
his laundry mark, and ascertain beyond any question
if he has ever, or any member of his family has ever,
used violet perfume.”
The cashier flushed suddenly.
“I can answer that,” he said, hotly. "No."
“I knew you would say that,” said The Thinking
Machine, curtly. “Please don't interrupt. Do as
I say, Mr. Hatch."
Accustomed as he was to the peculiar methods of
this man, Hatch saw faintly the purpose of the
inquiries.
“And the receiving teller?” he asked.
“I know about him," was the reply.
99


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
271
Hatch left the room, closing the door behind him.
He heard the bolt shot in the lock as he started away.
“I think it only fair to say here, Professor Van
Dusen," explained the president," that we under-
stand thoroughly that it would have been impossible
for Mr. West to have had anything to do with or
know-
Nothing is impossible,” interrupted The Think-
ing Machine.
“But I won't-" began West, angrily.
Just a moment, please," said The Thinking Ma-
chine. “No one has accused you of anything. What
I am doing may explain to your satisfaction just how
your handkerchief came here and bring about the
very thing I suppose you want-exoneration.”
The cashier sank back into a chair; President Fra-
ser looked from one to the other. Where there had
been worry on his face there was now only
wonderment.
“Your handkerchief was found in this office, ap-
parently having been dropped by the persons who
blew the safe," and the long, slender fingers of The
Thinking Machine were placed tip to tip as he talked.
“ It was not there the night before. The janitor who
swept says so; Dunston, who happened to look, says
so;
Miss Clarke and Dunston both say they saw you
with a handkerchief as you left the bank. There-
fore, that handkerchief reached that spot after you
left and before the robbery was discovered."
The cashier nodded.


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
273
unwittingly lost it at the time of the burglary, or else
stole it and deliberately left it. As I said, Mr.
West seems eliminated. Had he been one of the
robbers, he would not wittingly have left his hand-
kerchief; we will still assume that he does not use
perfume, therefore personally did not drop the hand-
kerchief where it was found.”
Impossible! I can't believe it, and of my em-
ployees—" began Mr. Fraser.
“Please don't keep saying things are impossible,"
snapped The Thinking Machine. “ It irritates me
exceedingly. It all comes to the one vital question:
Who in the bank uses perfume ?”
"I don't know," said the two officials.
“I do," said The Thinking Machine.
" There
are two-only two, Dunston, your receiving teller,
and Miss Clarke."
“ But they —
“Dunston uses a violet perfume not like that on
the handkerchief, but identical with it,” The Think-
ing Machine went on. Miss Clarke uses a strong
rose perfume.”
“But those two persons, above all others in the
bank, I trust implicitly,” said Mr. Fraser, earnestly.
And, besides, they wouldn't know how to blow a
safe. The police tell me this was the work of
experts.'
"Have you, Mr. Fraser, attempted to raise, or
have you raised lately, any large sum of money ?”
asked the scientist, suddenly.


274
BURGLARY
RALSTON
BANK
For a
hands; "
Well, yes," said the banker, “I have.
week past I have tried to raise ninety thousand dol-
lars on my personal account.”
“And you, Mr. West?"
The face of the cashier flushed slightly—it might
have been at the tone of the question—and there was
the least pause.
No," he answered finally.
" Very well," and the scientist arose, rubbing his
now we'll search your employees.
What?” exclaimed both men. Then Mr. Fra-
ser added: “That would be the height of absurdity;
it would never do. Besides, any person who robbed
the bank would not carry proofs of the robbery, or
even any of the money about with them—to the bank,
above all places."
The bank would be the safest place for it,"
retorted The Thinking Machine. “It is perfectly
possible that a thief in your employ would carry
some of the money; indeed, it is doubtful if he would
dare do anything else with it. He could see you
would have no possible reason for suspecting anyone
here-unless it is Mr. West."
There was a pause.
I'll do the searching, ex-
cept the three ladies, of course," he added, blush-
ingly. “ With them each combination of two can
search the other one."
Mr. Fraser and Mr. West conversed in low tones
for several minutes.
“ If the employees will consent I am willing,” Mr.


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
275
Fraser explained, at last; “ although I see no use
of it."
They will agree," said The Thinking Machine.
Please call them all into this office."
Among some confusion and wonderment the three
women and fourteen men of the bank were gathered
in the cashier's office, the outer doors being locked.
The Thinking Machine addressed them with charac-
teristic terseness.
“ In the investigation of the burglary of last
night,” he explained, “it has been deemed necessary
to search all employees of this bank.” A murmur of
surprise ran around the room. "Those who are in-
nocent will agree readily, of course; will all agree?"
There were whispered consultations on all sides.
Dunston flushed angrily; Miss Clarke, standing near
Mr. Fraser, paled slightly. Dunston looked at her
and then spoke.
“And the ladies ?” he asked.
They, too,” explained the scientist.
They may
search one another—in the other room, of course."
“I for one will not submit to such a proceeding,'
Dunston declared, bluntly, “not because I fear it,
but because it is an insult."
Simultaneously it impressed itself on the bank offi-
cials and The Thinking Machine that the one person
in the bank who used a perfume identical with that
on the handkerchief was the first to object to a
search. The cashier and president exchanged startled
glances.



THE RINNES
"It is an outrage," she sobbed


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
277
ton. Nothing! Then Miss Clarke roused herself
and dried her eyes.
'Of course I will have to agree,” she said, with
a flash of anger in her eyes.
Miss Willis was weeping, but, like Dunston,
she was compelled to yield, and the three women
went into an adjoining room. There was a tense
silence until they reappeared. Each shook her
head. The Thinking Machine nearly looked disap-
pointed.
“ Dear me!” he exclaimed. Now, Mr. Fraser."
He started toward the president, then paused to pick
up a scarf pin.
“This is yours," he said. “I saw it fall," and he
made as if to search the aged man.
“Well, do you really think it necessary in my
case ? " asked the president, in consternation, as he
drew back, nervously. “I-I am the president, you
know."
“ The others were searched in your presence, I
will search you in their presence," said The Think-
ing Machine, tartly.
“ But-but the president stammered.
afraid?” the scientist demanded.
“Why, of course not," was the hurried answer;
“but it seems so—so unusual."
“I think it best,” said The Thinking Machine,
and before the banker could draw away his slender
fingers were in the inside breast pocket, whence they
instantly drew out a bundle of money-one hundred
Are you


278
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
$100 bills—ten thousand dollars—with the initials
of the receiving teller, “ P. D.”— o. k.—R. W."
“Great God!” exclaimed Mr. Fraser, ashen
white.
“Dear me, dear me! ” said The Thinking Ma-
chine again. He sniffed curiously at the bundle of
bank notes, as a hound might sniff at a trail.
IV
PRESIDENT FRASER was removed to his home in a
dangerous condition. His advanced age did not
withstand the shock. Now alternately he raved and
muttered incoherently, and the old eyes were wide,
staring fearfully always. There was a consultation
between The Thinking Machine and West after the
removal of President Fraser, and the result was
another hurried meeting of the board of directors.
At that meeting West was placed, temporarily, in
command. The police, of course, had been informed
of the matter, but no arrest was probable.
Immediately after The Thinking Machine left the
bank Hatch appeared and inquired for him. From
the bank he went to the home of the scientist. There
Professor Van Dusen was bending over a retort, busy
with some problem.
“ Well?” he demanded, as he glanced up.
West told the truth,” began Hatch. “Neither
he nor any member of his family uses perfume; he


280
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
“She uses a perfume, the housekeeper tells me,
but she doesn't recall just what kind it is—so many
of the young women in the house use it. So I went
to her room and looked. There was no perfume
there. Her room was considerably disarranged,
which seemed to astonish the housekeeper, who de-
clared that she had carefully arranged it about nine
o'clock. It was two when I was there."
“How was it disarranged ? " asked the scientist.
“ The couch cover was jerked awry and the pillows
tumbled down, for one thing," said the reporter. “I
didn't notice any further."
The Thinking Machine relapsed into silence.
What happened at the bank?" inquired Hatch.
Briefly the scientist related the facts leading up to
the search, the search itself and its startling result.
The reporter whistled.
“Do you think Fraser had anything to do with
it?"
Run out and find out those other things about
West;" said The Thinking Machine, evasively.
“Come back here to-night. It doesn't matter what
time."
“ But who do you think committed the crime?
insisted the newspaper man.
"I may be able to tell you when you return."
For the time being The Thinking Machine seemed
to forget the bank robbery, being busy in his tiny
laboratory. He was aroused from his labors by the
ringing of the telephone bell.


282
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
of a large sum of money-ninety thousand dollars
because his personal fortune was in danger. Some
error in titles to an estate, he told me.”
“Yes, yes," said The Thinking Machine.
“Whether he was able to raise this money I don't
know," she went on. “I only hope he did without
having to—to do that—to have any-
To rob his bank,” said the scientist, tartly.
“Miss Clarke, is young Dunston in love with you?"
The girl's face changed color at the sudden
question.
“I don't see-” she began.
“ You may not see,” said The Thinking Machine,
but I can have him arrested for robbery and convict
him."
The girl gazed at him with wide, terror-stricken
eyes, and gasped.
'No, no, no," she said, hurriedly. “ He could
have had nothing to do with that at all."
Is he in love with you?” again came the
question.
There was a pause.
“ I've had reason to believe so," she said, finally,
though
“And you?”
The girl's face was flaming now, and, squinting
into her eyes, the scientist read the answer.
“I understand," he commented, tersely. “ Are
you going to be married ?"
“I could—could never marry him," she gasped


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
285
"Had you saved any money while working in your
other positions ?”
Well, the salary was small—I couldn't have
saved much.”
“How did you live those two years from the time
you left the Hartford Bank until you accepted this
position ?”
The girl stammered a little.
“I received assistance from friends," she said,
finally.
“Go on."
"That bank in Hartford," she continued, with a
little gleam of resentment in her eyes,“ had a safe
similar to the one at the Ralston National, though
not so large. It was blown in identically the same
way as this one was blown."
"Oh, I see," said the scientist.
" Some one was
arrested for this, and you want to give me the name
of that man?"
Yes," said the girl. “A professional burglar,
William Dineen, was arrested for that robbery and
confessed. Later he escaped. After his arrest he
boasted of his ability to blow any style of safe. He
used an invention of his own for the borings to place
the charges. I noticed that safe and I noticed this
one. There is a striking similarity in the two.”
The Thinking Machine stared at her.
“Why do you tell me?” he asked.
“Because I understood you were making the in-


286
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
vestigation for the bank,” she responded, unhesita-
tingly, “and I dreaded the notoriety of telling the
police."
“If this William Dineen is at large you believe
he did this?"
“I am almost positive.”
“ Thank you," said The Thinking Machine.
Miss Clarke went away, and late that night Hatch
appeared. He looked weary and sank into a chair
gratefully, but there was satisfaction in his eye. For
an hour or more he talked. At last The Thinking
Machine was satisfied, nearly.
“One thing more,” he said, in conclusion. “No-
tify the police to look out for William Dineen, pro-
fessional bank burglar, and his pals, whose names you
can get from the newspapers in connection with a
bank robbery in Hartford. They are wanted in con-
nection with this case."
The reporter nodded.
When Mr. Fraser recovers I intend to hold a
little party here," the scientist continued. “It will
be a surprise party.
It was two days later, and the police were appar-
ently seeking some tangible point from which they
could proceed, when The Thinking Machine re-
ceived word that there had been a change for the
better in Mr. Fraser's condition. Immediately he
sent for Detective Mallory, with whom he held a
long conversation. The detective went away tugging
at his heavy mustache and smiling. With three other


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
287
men he disappeared from police haunts that after-
noon on a special mission.
That night the little“ party was held in the
apartments of The Thinking Machine. President
Fraser was first to arrive. He was pale and
weak, but there was a fever of impatience in his
manner. Then came West, Dunston, Miss Clarke,
Miss Willis and Charles Burton, a clerk whose en-
gagement to the pretty Miss Willis had been recently
announced.
The party gathered, each staring at the other curi-
ously, with questions in their eyes, until The Think-
ing Machine entered, rubbing his fingers together
briskly. Behind him came Hatch, bearing a
gripsack. The reporter's face showed excitement
despite his rigid efforts to repress it. There were
some preliminaries, and then the scientist began.
“To come to the matter quickly," he said, in pref-
ace,
we will take it for granted that no employee
of the Ralston Bank is a professional burglar. But
the person who was responsible for that burglary,
who shared the money stolen, who planned it and
actually assisted in its execution is in this room-
now.
Instantly there was consternation, but it found no
expression in words, only in the faces of those
present.
“Further, I may inform you," went on the scien-
tist,
that no one will be permitted to leave this
room until I finish."


288
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
" Permitted ?" demanded Dunston.
" We are
not prisoners.
“You will be if I give the word," was the re-
sponse, and Dunston sat back, dazed. He glanced
uneasily at the faces of the others; they glanced un-
easily at him.
The actual facts in the robbery you know," went
on The Thinking Machine. “You know that the
safe was blown, that a large sum of money was
stolen, that Mr. West's handkerchief was found near
the safe. Now, I'll tell you what I have learned.
We will begin with President Fraser.
Against Mr. Fraser is more direct evidence than
against anyone else, because in his pocket was found
one of the stolen bundles of money, containing ten
thousand dollars. Mr. Fraser needed ninety thou-
sand dollars previous to the robbery.”
“But-" began the old man, with deathlike
face.
“Never mind,” said the scientist. “Next, Miss
Willis." Curious eyes were turned on her, and she,
too, grew suddenly white. Against her is less
direct evidence than against anyone else. Miss Willis
positively declined to permit a search of her person
until she was compelled to do so by the fact that the
other two permitted it. The fact that nothing was
found has no bearing on the subject. She did refuse.
“Then Charles Burton," the inexorable voice
went on, calmly, as if in mere discussion of a problem
of mathematics. “Burton is engaged to Miss Willis.


292
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
one
ers.
he said. “It will shorten your prison term." He
was speaking to no one in particular; yet to them all.
The two men who blew the safe are now about to
enter this room. After they appear it will be too
late."
Startled glances were exchanged, but no
stirred. Then came a knock at the door. Silently
The Thinking Machine looked about with a question
in his eyes. Still silence, and he threw open the door.
Three policemen in uniform and Detective Mallory
entered, bringing two prisoners.
These are the men who blew the safe,” The
Thinking Machine explained, indicating the prison-
“Does anyone here recognize them ? "
Apparently no one did, for none spoke.
“Do you recognize any person in this room?" he
asked of the prisoners.
One of them laughed shortly and said something
aside to the other, who smiled. The Thinking Ma-
chine was nettled and when he spoke again there was
a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“It may enlighten at least one of you in this
room,” he said, “to tell you that these two men are
Frank Seranno and Gustave Meyer, Mr. Meyer be-
ing a pupil and former associate of the notorious
bank burglar, William Dineen. You may lock them
up now," he said to Detective Mallory. They will
confess later."
“Confess!” exclaimed one of them. Both
laughed.


294
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
“Instantly I got the handkerchief I noticed the
odor of perfume—violet perfume. Perfume is used
by a great many women, by very few men. I asked
how many women were employed in the bank. There
were three. I handed the scented handkerchief to
Mr. Hatch, removed all odor of the clinging per-
fume from my hands with my own handkerchief and
also handed that to Mr. Hatch, so as to completely
rid myself of the odor.
' Then I started through the bank and spoke to
every person in it, standing close to them so that I
might catch the odor if they used it. Miss Clarke
was the first person who I found used it—but the
perfume she used was a strong rose odor. Then I
went on until I came to Mr. Dunston. The identical
odor of the handkerchief he revealed to me by draw-
ing out his own handkerchief while I talked to him."
Dunston looked a little startled, but said nothing;
instead he glanced at Miss Clarke, who sat listening,
interestedly. He could not read the expression on
her face.
“ This much done,” continued The Thinking Ma-
chine, "we retired to Cashier West's office. There
I knew the burglars had entered; there I saw a pow-
erful chemical solution had been applied to the gran-
ite around the sockets of the protecting steel bars to
soften the stone. Its direct effect is to make it of
chalklike consistency. I was also curious to know if
any
noise made in that room would attract attention
in the outer office, so I upset a heavy chair, then


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
295
looked outside. No one moved or looked back;
therefore no one heard.
“Here I explained to President Fraser and to Mr.
West why I connected some one in the bank with the
burglary. It was because of the scent on the hand-
kerchief. It would be tedious to repeat the detailed
explanation I had to give them. I sent Mr. Hatch
to find out, first, if Miss Clarke here had ever used
violet perfume instead of rose; also to find out if any
members of Mr. West's family used any perfume,
particularly violet. I knew that Mr. Dunston used it.
Then I asked Mr. Fraser if he had sought to
raise any large sum of money. He told me the
truth. But Mr. West did not tell me the truth in
answer to a question along the same lines. Now I
know why. It was because as cashier of the bank he
was not supposed to operate in stocks, yet he has
made a fortune at it. He didn't want Fraser to know
this, and willfully misrepresented the facts.
“ Then came the search. I expected to find just
what was found, money, but considerably more of
it. Miss Willis objected, Mr. Dunston objected and
Miss Clarke fainted in the arms of Mr. Fraser. I
read the motives of each aright. Dunston objected
because he is an egotistical young man and, being
young, is foolish. He considered it an insult. Miss
Willis objected also through a feeling of pride.'
The Thinking Machine paused for a moment,
locked his fingers behind his head and leaned far back
in his chair.


296
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
Shall I tell what happened next ? ” he asked,
" or will you tell it ? ”
Everyone in the room knew it was a question to
the guilty person. Which? Whom? There came
no answer, and after a moment The Thinking Ma-
chine resumed, quietly, very quietly.
“ Miss Clarke fainted in Mr. Fraser's arms.
While leaning against him, and while he stroked her
hair and tried to soothe her, she took from the bosom
of her loose shirtwaist a bundle of money, ten thou-
sand dollars, and slipped it into the inside pocket of
Mr. Fraser's coat."
There was deathlike silence.
“It's a lie!” screamed the girl, and she rose to her
feet with anger-distorted face. “It's a lie!"
Dunston arose suddenly and went to her. With
his arm about her he turned defiantly to The Think-
ing Machine, who had not moved or altered his posi-
tion in the slightest. Dunston said nothing, because
there seemed to be nothing to say.
“Into the inside pocket of Mr. Fraser's coat,"
The Thinking Machine repeated. “When she re-
moved her arms his scarf pin clung to the lace on
one of her sleeves. That I saw. That pin could not
have caught on her sleeve where it did if her hand
had not been to the coat pocket. Having passed this
sum of money-her pitiful share of the theft-she
agreed to the search.”
It's a lie!” shrieked the girl again. And her
every tone and every gesture said it was the truth.


300
RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
in the window, after pulling the bars out. The men
attacked the night watchman and bound him. The
handkerchief of Mr. West's I happened to pick up
in the office one afternoon a month ago and took it
home. There it got the odor of perfume from being
in a bureau with my things. On the night we went
to the bank I needed something to put about my neck
and used it. In the bank I dropped it. We had ar-
ranged all details at night, when I met them.”
She stopped and looked at Dunston, a long, linger-
ing look, that sent the blood to his face. It was not
an appeal; it was nothing save the woman love in her,
mingled with desperation.
“I intended to leave the bank in a little while,"
she went on. “Not immediately, because I was
afraid that would attract attention, but after a few
weeks. And then, too, I wanted to get forever out
of sight of this man," and she indicated Dunston.
“Why?” he asked.
Because I loved you as no woman ever loved a
man before," she said, “and I was not worthy.
There was another reason, too~I am married
already. This man, Gustave Meyer, is my husband.”
She paused and fumbled nervously at the veil
fastening at her throat. Silence lay over the room;
The Thinking Machine reached behind him and
picked up the shabby-looking gripsack which had
passed unnoticed.
“Are there any more questions? " the girl asked,
at last.
“I think not,” said The Thinking Machine.


RALSTON BANK BURGLARY
301
And, Mr. Dunston, you will give me credit for
some good, won't you—some good in that I loved
you ?” she pleaded.
My God!” he exclaimed in a sudden burst of
feeling.
“Look out!" shouted The Thinking Machine.
He had seen the girl's hand fly to her hat, saw it
drawn suddenly away, saw something slender flash
at her breast. But it was too late. She had driven a
heavy hat pin straight through her breast, piercing
the heart. She died in the arms of the man she loved,
with his tears on her face.
Detective Mallory appeared before the two pris-
oners in an adjoining room.
Miss Clarke has confessed," he said.
“Well, the little devil l” exclaimed Meyer. “I
knew some day she would throw us. I'll kill her!”
It isn't necessary,” remarked Mallory.
In the room where the girl lay The Thinking Ma-
chine pushed with his foot the shabby-looking grip
toward President Fraser and West.
“There's the money," he said.
“Where—how did you get it?"
“Ask Mr. Hatch."
Professor Van Dusen told me to search the
rooms of those men in there, find the shabbiest look-
ing bag or receptacle that was securely locked, and
bring it to him. I-I did so. I found it under the
bed, but I didn't know what was in it until he
opened it."


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
303
sensual; another glance shows the underlying typifi-
cation of success, and love and life are there. One
by one the qualities stand forth.
The artist was Constans St. George. After the
first flurry of excitement which the picture caused
there came a whirlwind of criticism. Then the artist,
who had labored for months on the work which he
had intended and which proved to be his masterpiece,
collapsed. Some said it was overwork—they were
partly right; others that it was grief at the attacks of
critics who did not see beyond the surface of the
painting. Perhaps they, too, were partly right.
However that may be, it is a fact that for several
months after the picture was exhibited St. George
was in a sanitarium. The physicians said it was
nervous collapse—a total breaking-down, and there
were fears for his sanity. At length there came an
improvement in his condition, and he returned to the
world. Since then he had lived quietly in his studio,
one of many in a large office building. From time to
time he had been approached with offers for the pic-
ture, but always he refused to sell. A New York
millionaire made a flat proposition of fifty thousand
dollars, which was as flatly refused.
The artist loved the picture as a child of his own
brain; every day he visited the museum where it was
exhibited and stood looking at it with something
almost like adoration in his eyes. Then he went
away quietly, tugging at his straggling beard and
with the dim blindness of tears in his eyes. He never


304 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
spoke to anyone; and always avoided that moment
when a crowd was about.
Whatever the verdict of the critics or of the public
on “ Fulfillment," it was an admitted fact that the
artist had placed on canvas a representation of a won-
derfully beautiful woman. Therefore, after awhile
the question of who had been the model for “ Fulfill-
ment was aroused. No one knew, apparently.
Artists who knew St. George could give no idea-
they only knew that the woman who had posed was
not a professional model.
This led to speculation, in which the names of some
of the most beautiful women in the United States
were mentioned. Then a romance was woven. This
was that the artist was in love with the original and
that his collapse was partly due to her refusal to wed
him. This story, as it went, was elaborated until the
artist was said to be pining away for love of one
whom he had im Ortalized in oils.
As the story grew it gained credence, and a search
was still made occasionally for the model. Half a
dozen times Hutchinson Hatch, a newspaper re-
porter of more than usual astuteness, had been on
the story without success; he had seen and studied the
picture until every line of it was firmly in his mind.
He had seen and talked to St. George twice. The
artist would answer no questions as to the identity of
the model.
This, then, was the situation on the morning of
Friday, November 27, when Hatch entered the repor-


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO 305
torial rooms of his newspaper. At sight of him the
City Editor removed his cigar, placed it carefully on
the “ official block” which adorned his flat-topped
desk, and called to the reporter.
“Girl reported missing," he said, brusquely.
Name is Grace Field, and she lived at No. 195
Street, Dorchester. Employed in the photo-
graphic department of the Star, a big department
store. Report of her disappearance made to the
police early to-day by Ellen Stanford, her room-
mate, also employed at the Star. Jump out on it
and get all you can. Here is the official police de-
scription."
Hatch took a slip of paper and read:
Grace Field, twenty-one years, five feet seven
inches tall, weight 151 pounds, profuse black hair,
dark-brown eyes, superb figure, oval face, said to be
beautiful."
Then the description went into details of her dress
and other things which the police note in their
minute records for a search. Hatch absorbed all
these things and left his office. He went first to
the department store, where he was told Miss Stan-
ford had not appeared that day, sending a note that
she was ill.
From the store Hatch went at once to the address
given in Dorchester. Miss Stanford was in. Would
she see a reporter? Yes. So Hatch was ushered into
the modest little parlor of a boarding-house, and
after awhile Miss Stanford entered. She was a petite


306 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
blonde, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, now reddened
by weeping.
Briefly Hatch explained the purpose of his visit-
an effort to find Grace Field, and Miss Stanford
eagerly and tearfully expressed herself as willing to
tell him all she knew.
“I have known Grace for five months,” she ex-
plained; “ that is, from the time she came to work at
the Star. Her counter is next to mine. A friendship
grew up between us, and we began rooming together.
Each of us is alone in the East. She comes from the
West, somewhere in Nevada, and I come from
Quebec.
“Grace has never said much about herself, but I
know that she had been in Boston a year or so before
I met her. She lived somewhere in Brookline, I be-
lieve, but it seems that she had some funds and did
not go to work until she came to the Star. This is
as I understand it.
“Three days ago, on Tuesday it was, there was a
letter for Grace when we came in from work. It
seemed to agitate her, although she said nothing to
me about what was in it, and I did not ask. She did
not sleep well that night, but next morning, when we
started to work, she seemed all right. That is, she
was all right until we got to the subway station, and
then she told me to go on to the store, saying she
would be there after awhile.
I left her, and at her request explained to the
manager of our floor that she would be late. From


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
missing girl is the mysterious model of St. George's
picture, ' Fulfillment. »
“Great," came the voice of the City Editor.
II
or
“ will you
or
till you
HAVING laid his story before his City Editor, Hatch
sat down to consider the fragmentary writing. Obvi-
ously “sday” represented a day of the week—either
Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, these being the
only days where the letter “s” preceded the “day.”
This seemed to be a definite fact, but still it meant
nothing. True, Miss Field had last been seen on
Wednesday, but then ?-nothing.
To the next part of the fragment Hatch attached
the greatest importance. It was the possibility of a
threat, -“ill you.” Did it mean “ kill you
or-or what?
There
might be dozens of other words ending in “ill”
which he did not recall at the moment. His imagi-
nation hammered the phrase into his brain as “kill
you.” The “to the "—the next words—were clear,
but meant nothing at all. The last letters were dis-
tinctly “ho," possibly “ hope."
Then Hatch began real work on the story. First
he saw the bank clerk, Victor Willis, who Miss
Stanford had said loved Grace Field, and whom
Hatch suspected Miss Stanford loved. He found
Willis a grim, sullen-faced young man of twenty-
eight years, who would say nothing.


THE MYSTERY OF A 311
STUDIO STUDIO
From that point Hatch worked vigorously for sev-
eral hours. At the end of that time he had found
out that on Wednesday, the day of Miss Field's dis-
appearance, a veiled woman -probably Grace Field
-had called at the bank and inquired for Willis.
Later, Willis, urging necessity, had asked to be
allowed the day off and left the bank. He did not
appear again until next morning. His actions did
not impress any of his associates with the idea that
he was a bridegroom; in fact, Hatch himself had
given up the idea that Miss Field had eloped. There
seemed no reason for an elopement.
When Hatch called at the studio, and home, of
Constans St. George, to inform him of the disappear-
ance of the model whose identity had been so long
guarded, he was told that Mr. St. George was not
in; that is, St. George refused to answer knocks
at the door, and had not been seen for a day or
so. He frequently disappeared this way, his inform-
ant said.
With these facts—and lack of facts-in his
posses-
sion on Friday evening, Hatch called on Professor
S. F. X. Van Dusen. The Thinking Machine re-
ceived him as cordially as he ever received anybody.
“Well, what is it?” he asked.
“I don't believe this is really worth your while,
Professor,” Hatch said, finally." It's just
“ It's just a case of
a girl who disappeared. There are some things about
it which are puzzling, but I'm afraid it's only an
elopement.”


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO 313
Any one of fifty things,” responded the other.
“She might have fallen dead in the street and been
removed to a hospital or undertaking establishment;
she might have been arrested for shoplifting and
given a wrong name; she might have gone mad and
gone away; she might have eloped with another man;
she might have committed suicide; she might have
been murdered. The question is not what could
have happened, but what did happen.”
“Yes, I thoroughly understand that,” Hatch re-
plied, with a slight smile. But still I don't see-
Probably you don't,” snapped the other.
We'll take it for granted that she did none of these
things, with the possible exception of eloping, killing
herself, or was murdered. You are convinced that
she did not elope. Yet you have only run down one
possible end of this—that is, the possibility of her
elopement with Willis. You don't believe she did
elope with him. Well, why not with St. George?”
"St. George?” gasped Hatch. “A great artist
elope with a shop-girl? ”
She was his ideal in a picture which you say is
one of the greatest in the world,” replied the other,
testily. That being true, it is perfectly possible
that she was his ideal for a wife, isn't it?"
The matter had not occurred to Hatch in just that
light. He nodded his head, with a feeling of having
been weighed and found wanting.
“Now, you say, too, that St. George has not been
seen around his studio for a couple of days,” said the


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO 315
the mantel. “ It is just nine o'clock now," he com-
mented. How long would it take you to get to
the studio ?”
“Half an hour."
“Well, go there now," directed the scientist. “If
Mr. St. George is in his studio he will come out of it
to-night at thirty-two minutes past nine. He will be
running, and may not wear either a hat or coat."
“What?" and Hatch grinned, a weak, puzzled
grin.
“ You wait where he can't see you when he comes
out," the scientist went on. When he goes he may
leave the door open. If he does go on see if you
find any trace of Miss Field, and then, on his return,
meet him at the outer door, ask him what you please,
and come to see me to-morrow morning. He will be
out of his studio about twenty minutes."
Vaguely Hatch felt that the scientist was talking
rot, but he had seen this strange mind bring so many
odd things to pass that he could not doubt this, even
if it were absurd on its face.
“At thirty-two minutes past nine to-night," said
the reporter, and he glanced at his watch.
“ Come to see me to-morrow after you see the
handwriting of Willis and St. George," directed the
scientist. “Then you may also tell me just what hap-
pens to-night."
Hatch was feeling like a fool. He was waiting in
a darkened corner, just a few feet from St. George's


318 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
door open one flight below, and started down the
steps. There, half way, he met St. George.
"Mr. St. George?” he asked.
'No," was the reply.
Hatch knew his man perfectly, because he had seen
him half a dozen times and had talked to him twice.
The denial of identity therefore was futile.
“I came to tell you that Grace Field, the model
for your ' Fulfillment,' has disappeared,” Hatch went
on, as the other glared at him.
“I don't care,” snapped the other. He darted up
the steps. Hatch listened until he heard the door of
the studio close.
It was ten minutes to ten o'clock when Hatch left
the building. Now he would see Miss Stanford and
have her identify the gloves and the veil. He boarded
a car and drew out and closely examined the gloves
and veil. The gloves were tan, rather heavy, but
small, and the veil was of some light, cobwebby
material which he didn't know by name.
“If these are Grace Field's,” the reporter argued,
to himself, “it means something. If they are not,
I'm simply a burglar.”
There was a light in the Dorchester house where
Miss Stanford lived, and the reporter rang the bell.
A servant appeared.
“Would it be possible for me to see Miss Stanford
for just a moment ?” he asked.
“If she has not gone to bed.”
He was ushered into the little parlor again. The


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO 323
The scientist grunted.
“I also saw some of St. George's writing,” the
reporter went on, as if he were reciting a lesson. “It
is wholly dissimilar."
The Thinking Machine nodded.
“ Willis has no revolver that anyone ever heard
of,” Hatch continued. “He was at dinner with sey-
eral of his fellow employees last night, and left the
restaurant at eight o'clock."
“Been drinking?”
“Might have had a few drinks,” responded the
reporter. “He is not a drinking man.”
“Has St. George a revolver?”
“I was unable to find that out or do anything
except get a sample of his writing from another
artist,” the reporter explained. “He is in a hospital,
raving crazy. It seems to be a return of the trouble
he had once before, except it is worse. The wound
itself is not bad."
The scientist was studying the sheet of paper.
“ Have you that scrap?” he asked.
Hatch produced it, and the scientist placed it on
the sheet; Hatch could only conjecture that he was
fitting it to something else already there. He was
engaged in this work when Martha entered.
The young lady who was here earlier to-day
wants to see you again," she announced.
Show her in," directed The Thinking Machine,
without raising his eyes.
Martha disappeared, and after a moment Miss


324 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
Stanford entered. Hatch, himself unnoticed, stared
at her curiously, and arose, as did the scientist. The
girl's face was flushed a little, and there was an eager
expression in her eyes.
“I know he didn't do it," she began. “ I've just
gotten a letter from Springfield stating that he was
there on the day Grace went away—and-
“Know who didn't do what?" asked the scientist.
“That Mr. Willis didn't kill Grace,” replied the
girl, her enthusiasm suddenly checked. “See here."
The scientist read a letter which she offered, and
the girl sank into a chair. Then for the first time she
saw Hatch and her eyes expressed her surprise. She
stared at him a moment, then nodded a greeting,
after which she fell to watching The Thinking
Machine.
“Miss Stanford,” he said, at length, “ you made
several mistakes when you were here before in not
telling me the truth—all of it. If you will tell me
all
you
know of this case I
may
be able to see it more
clearly.”
The girl reddened and stammered a little, then
her lips trembled.
“Do you know — not conjecture, but know —
whether or not Miss Field, or Grace, as you call her,
was engaged to Willis ? " the irritated voice asked.
“I-I know it, yes,” she stammered.
And you were in love with Mr. Willis—you are
in love with him?"
Again the tell-tale blush swept over her face. She


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
325
glanced at Hatch; it was the nervousness of a girl
who is driven to a confession of love.
“I regard Mr. Willis very highly,” she said,
finally, her voice low.
Well," and the scientist arose and crossed to
where the girl sat, “ don't you see that a very grave
charge might be brought home to you if you don't
tell all of this? The girl has disappeared. There
might be even a hint of murder in which your name
would be mentioned. Don't you see?"
There was a long pause, and the girl stared steadily
into the squint eyes above her. Finally her eyes fell.
“I think I understand. Just what is it you want
me to answer ? '
“ Did or did you not ever hear Mr. Willis threaten
Miss Field ?"
“I did once, yes.
“Did or did you not know that Miss Field was
the original of the painting?
“I did not.”
“ It is a semi-nude picture, isn't it?
Again there was a flush in the girl's face.
“I have heard it was," she said. “I have never
seen it. I suggested to Grace several times that we
go to see it, but she never would. I understand why
now."
“ Did Willis know she was the original of that
painting? That is, knowing it yourself now, do you
have any reason to suppose that he previously
knew?"


326 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
“I don't know," she said, frankly. “I know that
there was something which was always causing fric-
tion between them—something they quarreled about.
It might have been that. That was when I heard
Mr. Willis threaten her—it was something about
shooting her if she ever did something—I don't know
what.
“Miss Field knew him before you did, I think
you said ?"
“She introduced me to him."
The Thinking Machine fingered the sheet of paper
he held.
“Did you know what those
scraps
of
paper you
brought me contained?"
Yes, in a way," said the girl.
Why did you bring them, then ?
“Because you told me you knew I had them, and
I was afraid it might make more trouble for me and
for Mr. Willis if I did not."
The Thinking Machine passed the sheet to Hatch.
“This will interest you, Mr. Hatch," he explained.
“Those words and letters in parentheses are what I
have supplied to complete the full text of the note,
of which you had a mere scrap. You will notice how
the scrap you had fitted into it."
The reporter read this:
“If you go to th(at stud) io Wednesday to see
that artist, (I will k) ill you bec(ause I w)on't have
it known to the world tha (t you a) re a model. I
hope you will heed this warning.
“ V. W."


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
329
With quick steps he went to the telephone and
called up Police Headquarters.
Detective Mallory," Hatch heard him ask for.
“Yes. This is Professor Van Dusen. Please meet
me immediately here at my house. Be here in ten
minutes? Good. I'll wait. It's a matter of great
importance. Good-by."
Then impatiently The Thinking Machine moved
about, waiting. The reporter, whose acquaintance
· with the logician was an extended one, had never seen
him in just such a state. It started when he heard
St. George had escaped.
At last they left the house and stood waiting on
the steps until Detective Mallory appeared in a cab.
Into that Hatch and The Thinking Machine climbed,
after the latter had given some direction, and the
cabby drove rapidly away. It was all a mystery to
Hatch, and he was rather glad of it when Detective
Mallory asked what it meant.
“Means that there is danger of a tragedy,” said
The Thinking Machine, crustily. “We may be in
time to avert it. There is just a chance. If I'd only
known this an hour ago—even half an hour ago—it
might have been stopped.”
The Thinking Machine was the first man out of
the cab when it stopped, and Hatch and the detective
followed quickly.
“Is Mr. St. George in his apartments ? " asked
the scientist of the elevator boy.
"No, sir," said the boy. “He's in hospital, shot.”


330
THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
Is there a key to his place? Quick.”
“I think so, sir, but I can't give it to you."
“Here, give it to me, then !” exclaimed the detec-
tive. He flashed a badge in the boy's eyes, and the
youth immediately lost a deal of his coolness.
Gee, a detective! Yes, sir.”
“How many rooms has Mr. St. George?” asked
the scientist.
“ Three and a bath,'
” the boy responded.
Two minutes later the three men stood in the re-
ception-room of the apartments. There came to
them from somewhere inside a deadly, stifling odor
of chloroform. After one glance around The Think-
ing Machine rushed into the next room, the studio.
“Dear me, dear me!” he exclaimed.
There on the floor lay huddled the figure of a man.
Blood had run from several wounds on his head.
The Thinking Machine stooped a moment, and his
slender fingers fumbled over the heart.
“ Unconscious, that's all,” he said, and he raised
the man up.
“ Victor Willis !” exclaimed Hatch.
“Victor Willis!” repeated The Thinking Ma-
chine, as if puzzled. “Are you sure?”
Certain,” said Hatch, positively.
bank clerk."
“Then we are too late," declared the scientist.
He arose and looked about the room. A door to
his right attracted his attention
He jerked it open
and peered in. It was a clothes press. Another


334 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
He turned his head at last and saw the inert bodies
of St. George and Grace Field, the girl whom he had
loved.
She was here, then!” he exclaimed suddenly,
violently. “I knew it. Is she dead?”
“Shut up that young fool's mouth, Mr. Mallory,"
commanded the scientist, sharply. “Take him in the
other room or send him away.'
Obediently Mallory did as directed; there was
that in the voice of this cold, calm being, The Think-
ing Machine, which compelled obedience. Mallory
never questioned motives or orders.
Willis was able to walk to the other room with
help. Miss Field and St. George lay side by side
in the cold wind from the
open
window. The Think-
ing Machine had forced a little whiskey down their
throats, and after a time St. George opened his
eyes.
The artist was instantly alert and tried to rise. He
was weak, however, and even a strength given to him
by the madness which blazed in his eyes did not
avail. At last he lay raving, cursing, shrieking. The
Thinking Machine regarded him closely.
Hopeless,” he said, at last.
'Again for
many
minutes the scientist worked with
the girl. Finally he asked that an ambulance be
sent for. The detective called up the City Hospital
on the telephone in the apartments and made the re-
quest. The Thinking Machine stared alternately at
the girl and at the artist.


336 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
“Now, Mr. Hatch, I suppose you want some de-
tails," said The Thinking Machine, as he relapsed
into his accustomed attitude. “And you, too, Mr.
Mallory, since you are holding Willis a prisoner on
my say-so. Would you like to know why?”
Sure," said the detective.
“Let's go back a little-begin at the beginning,
where Mr. Hatch called on me," said The Thinking
Machine. “I can make the matter clearer that way.
And I believe the cause of justice, Mr. Mallory, re-
quires absolute accuracy and clarity in all things,
does it not?"
Sure," said the detective again.
'Well, Mr. Hatch told me at some length of the
preliminaries of this case,” explained The Thinking
Machine. “He told me the history of the picture;
the mystery as to the identity of the model; her great
beauty; how he found her to be Grace Field, a shop-
girl. He also told me of the mental condition of the
artist, St. George, and repeated the rumor as he knew
it about the artist being heartbroken because the girl
-his model—would not marry him.
“ All this brought the artist into the matter of the
girl's disappearance. She represented to him, physi-
cally, the highest ideal of which he could conceive-
hope, success, life itself. Therefore it was not aston-
ishing that he should fall in love with her; and it is
not difficult to imagine that the girl did not fall in
love with him. She is a beautiful woman, but not
necessarily a woman of mentality; he is a great artist,


338 THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
loved with all his heart," explained the scientist.
“ That was his picture. Every act of his life has
demonstrated that. I looked at a telephone book; I
found he had a 'phone. If he were in his rooms,
locked in, it was a bit of common sense that his tele-
phone was the best means of reaching him. He
answered the 'phone; I told him, just at 9:30, that
the Art Museum was on fire and his picture in danger.
“St. George left his apartments to go and see,
just as I knew he would, hatless and coatless, and
leaving the door open. Mr. Hatch went inside and
found two gloves and a veil, all belonging to Miss
Field. Miss Stanford identified them and asked if
he had gotten them from Willis, and if Willis had
been arrested. Why did she ask these questions?
Obviously because she knew, or thought she knew,
that Willis had some connection with the affair.
“ Mr. Hatch detailed all his discoveries and the
conversation with Miss Stanford to me on the day
after I 'phoned to St. George, who, of course, had
found no fire. It showed that Miss Stanford sus-
pected Willis, whom she loved, of the murder of Miss
Field. Why? Because she had heard him threaten.
He's a hare-brained young fool, anyway. What mo-
tive ? Jealousy. Jealousy of what? He knew in
some way that she had posed for a semi-nude picture,
and that the man who painted it loved her. There is
your jealousy. It explains Willis's every act."
The Thinking Machine paused a moment, then
went on:


349" THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
that if she had disappeared with a man, it was St.
George, as there was no other apparent possibility;
third, that St. George would be with her or near her,
even if he had killed her; fourth, the pistol shot
through the arm had brought on again a mental con-
dition which threatened his entire future, and now as
it happens has blighted it.
“ Thus, Miss Field and St. George were together.
She loved Willis devotedly, therefore she was with
St. George against her will, or she was dead. Where?
In his rooms? Possibly. I determined to search
there. I had just reached this determination when I
heard St. George, violently insane, had escaped from
the hospital. He had only one purpose then-to get
to the woman. Then she was in danger.
"I reasoned along these lines, rushed to the artist's
apartments, found Willis there wounded. He had
evidently been there searching when St. George re-
turned, and St. George had attacked him, as a mad-
man will, and with the greater strength of a madman.
Then I knew the madman's first step. It would be
the end of everything for him; therefore the death of
the girl and his own. How? By poison preferably,
because he would not shoot her—he loved beauty too
much. Where? Possibly in the place where she had
been all along, the closet, carefully padded and pre-
pared to withstand noises. It is really a padded cell.
I have an idea that the artist, sometimes overcome by
his insane fits, and knowing when they would come,
prepared this closet and used it himself occasion-









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