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 dismissed 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 circumstances 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 anything about the
disappearance of Miss Dow," he 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 happen 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 Machine 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 Thinking 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."
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 monogram 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 received 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 honeymoon."
"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 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,
confidentially. "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 Machine, 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 Machine 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.
"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 Machine. "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 informed The Thinking
Machine.
"Ah," said that individual, quietly. "Did you 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 after to-morrow,"
instructed The Thinking Machine. "Publish as little as you can of this
matter until you see me. 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 informed 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 following, as directed by
The Thinking Machine, Hatch appeared and was ushered in. The Thinking
Machine 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 detective 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."
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. Mallory 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.