Entirely unaware of this latest attempt on the life of the broker,
Hutchinson Hatch steadily pursued his investigations. They finally led
him to an intimate friend of Regnault Cabell. The young Southerner 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, 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 suspicions 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 everywhere, 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 congratulate 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 underlying 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?"
"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, questions 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 introduction 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."
Hatch whistled his amazement.
"Is he dead?"
"No, but he is unconscious. The hospital doctors 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 determination. 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 Henley
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."
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 personal 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 not in very tidy shape
now. I have been out of the city for several weeks, and---- What's the
matter?" 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. "During 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 suppose there's any chance
of her returning here unexpectedly 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, before you finish packing
that suit case be sure to put my bath robe in it. It's in the far
room."
Then one question was settled for Hatch. After a moment the valet
returned with the bath robe, which had been in the far room. It was
Cabell's bath robe. As Jean passed the reporter an end of the robe
caught on a corner of the trunk, and, stopping, the reporter
unfastened it. A tiny strand of thread clung to the metal; Hatch
detached it and stood idly twirling it in his fingers.
"As I was saying," he resumed, "I rather like the place, but the price
is too much. Suppose you leave it in the hands of the manager of the
house----"
"I had intended doing that," the Southerner interrupted.
"Well, I'll see him about it later," Hatch added.
With a cordial, albeit preoccupied, handshake, Cabell ushered him
out. Hatch went down in the elevator with a feeling of elation; a
feeling that he had accomplished something. The manager was waiting to
get into the lift.
"Do you happen to remember the name of the young lady who occupied Mr.
Cabell's suite while he was away?" he asked.
"Miss Austin," said the manager, "but she's not young. She was about
forty-five years old, I should judge."
"Did Mr. Cabell have his servant Jean with him?"
"Oh, no," said the manager. "The valet gave 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
identical 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, conclusively.