The Supreme Police Intelligence of the Metropolitan District was doing
some heavy thinking, which, modestly enough, bore generally on his own
dazzling perspicacity. Just at the moment he couldn't recall any
detector of crime whose lustre in any way dimmed his own, or whose mere
shadow, even, had a right to fall on the same earth as his; and this
lapse of memory so stimulated his admiration for the subject of his
thoughts that he lighted a fresh cigar and put his feet in the middle of
the desk.
He sat thus when The Thinking Machine called. The Supreme
Intelligence--Mr. Mallory--knew Professor Van Dusen well, and, though he
received his visitor graciously, he showed no difficulty in restraining
any undue outburst of enthusiasm. Instead, the same admirable
self-control which prevented him from outwardly evidencing his pleasure
prompted him to square back in his chair with a touch of patronising
aggressiveness in his manner.
"Ah, Professor," was his noncommittal greeting.
"Good-evening, Mr. Mallory," responded the scientist in the thin,
irritated voice which always set Mr. Mallory's nerves a-jangle. "I don't
suppose you would tell me by what steps you were led to arrest Mr.
Herbert?"
"I would not," declared Mr. Mallory promptly.
"No, nor would you inform me of the nature of the evidence against him
in addition to the jewels and plate found in his possession?"
"I would not," replied Mr. Mallory again.
"No, I thought perhaps you would not," remarked The Thinking Machine. "I
understand, by the way, that one of your men took a leather cushion from
the automobile in which the thieves escaped on the night of the ball?"
"Well, what of it?" demanded the detective.
"I merely wanted to inquire if it would be permissible for me to see
that cushion?"
Detective Mallory glared at him suspiciously, then slowly his heavy
face relaxed, and he laughed as he arose and produced the cushion.
"If you're trying to make any mystery of this cushion, you're in bad,"
he informed the scientist. "We know the owner of the automobile in which
Herbert and the Girl escaped. The cushion means nothing."
The Thinking Machine examined the heavy leather carefully and paid a
great deal of attention to the crusted stains which it bore. He picked
at one of the brown spots with his penknife and it flaked off in his
hand.
"Herbert was caught with the goods on," declared the detective, and he
thumped the desk with his lusty fist. "We've got the right man."
"Yes," admitted The Thinking Machine, "it begins to look very much as if
you _did_ have the right man--for once."
Detective Mallory snorted.
"Would you mind telling me if any of the jewelry you found in Mr.
Herbert's possession has been identified?"
"Sure thing," replied the detective. "That's where I've got Herbert
good. Four people who lost jewelry at the masked ball have appeared and
claimed pieces of the stuff."
For an instant a slightly perplexed wrinkle appeared in the brow of The
Thinking Machine, and as quickly it passed.
"Of course, of course," he mused.
"It's the biggest haul of stolen goods the police of this city have made
for many years," the detective volunteered complacently. "And, if I'm
not wrong, there's more of it coming--no man knows how much more. Why,
Herbert must have been operating for years, and he got away with it, of
course, by the gentlemanly exterior, the polish, and all that. I
consider his capture the most important that has happened since I have
been connected with the police."
"Indeed?" inquired the scientist thoughtfully. He was still gazing at
the cushion.
"And the most important development of all is to come," Detective
Mallory rattled on. "That will be the real sensation, and make the
arrest of Herbert seem purely incidental. It now looks as if there
would be another arrest of a--of a person who is so high socially, and
all that----"
"Yes," interrupted The Thinking Machine, "but do you think it would be
wise to arrest her now?"
"Her?" demanded Detective Mallory. "What do you know of any woman?"
"You were speaking of Miss Dorothy Meredith, weren't you?" inquired The
Thinking Machine blandly. "Well, I merely asked if you thought it would
be wise for your men to go so far as to arrest her."
The detective bit his cigar in two in obvious perturbation.
"How--how--did you happen to know her name?" he demanded.
"Oh, Mr. Hatch mentioned it to me," replied the scientist. "He has known
of her connection with the case for several days, as well as Herbert's,
and has talked to them both, I think."
The Supreme Intelligence was nearly apoplectic.
"If Hatch knew it why didn't he tell me?" he thundered.
"Really, I don't know," responded the scientist. "Perhaps," he added
curtly, "he may have had some absurd notion that you would find it out
for yourself. He has strange ideas like that sometimes."
And when Detective Mallory had fully recovered The Thinking Machine was
gone.
Meanwhile Hatch had seen and questioned Dr. Clarence Walpole in the
latter's office, only a stone's throw from Dick Herbert's home. Had
Doctor Walpole recently dressed a wound for Mr. Herbert? Doctor Walpole
had. A wound caused by a pistol-bullet? Yes.
"When was it, please?" asked Hatch.
"Only a few nights ago."
"Thursday night, perhaps?"
Doctor Walpole consulted a desk-diary.
"Yes, Thursday night, or rather Friday morning," he replied. "It was
between two and three o'clock. He came here and I fixed him up."
"Where was the wound, please?"
"In the right shoulder," replied the physician, "just here," and he
touched the reporter with one finger. "It wasn't dangerous, but he had
lost considerable blood."
Hatch was silent for a moment, dazed. Every new point piled up the
evidence against Herbert. The location of the wound--a pistol-wound--the
very hour of the dressing of it! Dick would have had plenty of time
between the moment of the robbery, which was comparatively early, and
the hour of his call on Doctor Walpole to do all those things which he
was suspected of doing.
"I don't suppose Mr. Herbert explained how he got the wound?" Hatch
asked apprehensively. He was afraid he had.
"No. I asked, but he evaded the question. It was, of course, none of my
business, after I had extracted the bullet and dressed the hurt."
"You have the bullet?"
"Yes. It's the usual size--thirty-two calibre."
That was all. The prosecution was in, the case proven, the verdict
rendered. Ten minutes later Hatch's name was announced to Dick Herbert.
Dick received him gloomily, shook hands with him, then resumed his
interrupted pacing.
"I had declined to see men from other papers," he said wearily.
"Now, look here, Dick," expostulated Hatch, "don't you want to make some
statement of your connection with this affair? I honestly believe that
if you did it would help you."
"No, I cannot make any statement--that's all." Dick's hand closed
fiercely. "I can't," he added, "and there's no need to talk of it." He
continued his pacing for a moment or so; then turned on the reporter.
"Do you believe me guilty?" he demanded abruptly.
"I can't believe anything else," Hatch replied falteringly. "But at that
I don't _want_ to believe it." There was an embarrassed pause. "I have
just seen Dr. Clarence Walpole."
"Well?" Dick wheeled on him angrily.
"What he said alone would convict you, even if the stuff had not been
found here," Hatch replied.
"Are you _trying_ to convict me?" Dick demanded.
"I'm trying to get the truth," remarked Hatch.
"There is just one man in the world whom I must see before the truth can
ever be told," declared Dick vehemently. "And I can't find him now. I
don't know where he is!"
"Let me find him. Who is he? What's his name?"
"If I told you that I might as well tell you everything," Dick went on.
"It was to prevent any mention of that name that I have allowed myself
to be placed in this position. It is purely a personal matter between
us--at least I will make it so--and if I ever meet him----" his hands
closed and unclosed spasmodically, "the truth will be known unless I--I
kill him first."
More bewildered, more befuddled, and more generally betangled than ever,
Hatch put his hands to his head to keep it from flying off. Finally he
glanced around at Dick, who stood with clenched fists and closed teeth.
A blaze of madness lay in Dick's eyes.
"Have you seen Miss Meredith again?" inquired the reporter.
Dick burst out laughing.
Half an hour later Hatch left him. On the glass top of an inkstand he
carried three precious drops of Herbert's blood.