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 financier 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 hundred-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
Machine, 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 carefully 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. 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?"
In due course of events the answer came. It was brief and to the
point. It said:
"Harrison recently embezzled $175,000 and disappeared. Bell's
reputation excellent; now out of city. Don't know John Doane. If you
have any trace of Harrison, wire quick."
This answer came just after Doane awoke, apparently 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 scientist. "President of the
Blank National Bank of Butte?"
There was only an uncomprehending stare for an answer. After a long
time of this The Thinking Machine instructed Hatch and Doane to go for
a walk. He had still a faint hope that some one might recognize Doane
and speak to him. As they wandered aimlessly on two persons spoke to
him. One was a man who nodded and passed on.
"Who was that?" asked Hatch quickly. "Do you remember ever having seen
him before?"
"Oh, yes," was the reply. "He stops at my hotel. He knows me as
Doane."
It was just a few minutes before six o'clock when, walking slowly,
they passed a great office building. Coming toward them was a
well-dressed, active man of thirty-five years or so. As he approached
he removed a cigar from his lips.
"Hello, Harry!" he exclaimed, and reached for Doane's hand.
"Hello," said Doane, but there was no trace of recognition in his
voice.
"How's Pittsburg?" asked the stranger.
"Oh, all right, I guess," said Doane, and there came new wrinkles of
perplexity in his brow. "Allow me, Mr.--Mr.--really I have forgotten
your name----"
"Manning," laughed the other.
"Mr. Hatch, Mr. Manning."
The reporter shook hands with Manning eagerly; he saw now a new line
of possibilities suddenly revealed. 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 cafe. "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 Manning.
"All of that, I should say," was the reply.
"Twenty hours at the table," said Manning, and again he laughed
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 circumstances," said Hatch, in
explanation. "This man 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
anything 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 impression 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.--Mr. Doane
here. I sat at the same table with him for twenty hours or so, but I
can't recall his last name to save me. It isn't Doane, I'm positive. I
have an excellent memory for faces, and I know you're the man. Don't
you remember me?"
"I haven't the slightest recollection of ever having seen you before
in my life," was Doane's slow reply. "I have no recollection of ever
having been in Pittsburg--no recollection of anything."
"Do you know if Mr. Doane is a resident of Pittsburg?" Hatch inquired.
"Or was he there as a visitor, as you were?"
"Couldn't tell you to save my life," replied Manning. "Lord, it's
amazing, isn't it? You don't remember me? You called me Bill all
evening."
The other man shook his head.
"Well, say, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, thanks," said Doane. "Only tell me my name, and who I am."
"Lord, I don't know."
"What sort of a club is the Lincoln?" asked Hatch.
"It's a sort of a millionaire's club," Manning explained. "Lots of
iron men belong to it. I had considerable business with them--that's
what took me to Pittsburg."
"And you are absolutely positive this is the man you met there?"
"Why, I _know_ it. I never forget faces; it's my business to remember
them."
"Did he say anything about a family?"
"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 January, 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,
explaining at the same time that he would be in the city for several
days and was perfectly willing to help in any way he could. 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 Thinking 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."
"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."
* * * * * *
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," requested 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 Machine. 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.
"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 shoulder 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.