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."
"That's all right," said the constable. "I was there in my official
capacity, and I shoot when I want to."
"But the shot did no harm," Hatch put in.
"I would swear it went right through it, too," said the constable,
boastfully. "I can shoot."
Weston was arguing with himself. He was a cold-blooded man of
business; his mind was not one to play him tricks. Yet now he felt
benumbed; he could conceive no explanation of what he had seen. Again
in his room in the little hotel, where they spent the remainder of the
night, he stared blankly at the reporter.
"Can you imagine any way it could be done?" Hatch shook his head.
"It isn't a spook, of course," the broker went on, with a nervous
smile; "but--but I'm sorry I went. I don't think probably I shall have
the work done there as I thought."
They slept only fitfully and took an early train back to Boston. As
they were about to separate at the South Station, the broker had a
last word.
"I'm going to solve that thing," he declared, determinedly. "I know
one man at least who isn't afraid of it--or of anything else. I'm
going to send him down to keep a lookout and take care of the place.
His name is O'Heagan, and he's a fighting Irishman. If he and
that--that--THING ever get mixed up together----"
Like a schoolboy with a hopeless problem, Hatch 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: "You say 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," explained 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.
Next day about noon he called at Ernest Weston's office. The broker
was in.
"Did you send down your man O'Heagan?" he asked.
"Yes," said the broker, and he was almost smiling.
"What happened?"
"He's outside. I'll let him tell you."
The broker went to the door and spoke to some one and O'Heagan
entered. He was a big, blue-eyed Irishman, frankly freckled and
red-headed--one of those men who look trouble in the face and are glad
of it if the trouble can be reduced to a fighting basis. An
everlasting smile was about his lips, only now it was a bit faded.
"Tell Mr. Hatch what happened last night," requested the broker.
O'Heagan told it. He, too, had sought to get hold of the flaming
figure. As he ran for it, it disappeared, was obliterated, wiped out,
gone, and he found himself groping in the darkness of the room beyond,
the library. Like Hatch, he took the nearest way out, which happened
to be through a window already smashed.
"Outside," he went on, "I began to think about it, and I saw there was
nothing to be afraid of, but you couldn't have convinced me of that
when I was inside. I took a lantern in one hand and a revolver in the
other and went all over that house. There was nothing; if there had
been we would have had it out right there. But there was nothing. So I
started out to the barn, where I had put a cot in a room.
"I went upstairs to this room--it was then about two o'clock--and went
to sleep. It seemed to be an hour or so later when I awoke suddenly--I
knew something was happening. And the Lord forgive me if I'm a liar,
but there was a cat--a ghost cat in my room, racing around like mad. I
just naturally got up to see what was the matter and rushed for the
door. The cat beat me to it, and cut a flaming streak through the
night.
"The cat looked just like the thing inside the house--that is, it was
a sort of shadowy, waving white light like it might be afire. I went
back to bed in disgust, to sleep it off. You see, sir," he apologized
to Weston, "that there hadn't been anything yet I could put my hands
on."
"Was that all?" asked Hatch, smilingly.
"Just the beginning. Next morning when I awoke I was bound to my cot,
hard and fast. My hands were tied and my feet were tied, and all I
could do was lie there and yell. After awhile, it seemed years, I
heard some one outside and shouted louder than ever. Then the
constable come up and let me loose. I told him all about it--and then
I came to Boston. And with your permission, Mr. Weston, I resign right
now. I'm not afraid of anything I can fight, but when I can't get hold
of it--well----"
Later Hatch joined The Thinking Machine. They caught a train for the
little village by the sea. On the way The Thinking Machine asked a few
questions, 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 Providence 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 several 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."
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 hallway. 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, solidly built of stone,
stooping and running his fingers along the stones as he walked. He
made the entire circuit as Hatch looked on. Then he made it again, but
this time with his hands raised above his head, feeling the walls
carefully as he went. He repeated this at the chimney, going carefully
around the masonry, high and low.
"Dear me, dear me!" he exclaimed, petulantly. "You are taller than I
am, Mr. Hatch. Please feel carefully around the top of this chimney
base and see if the rocks are all solidly set."
Hatch then began a tour. At last one of the great stones which made
this base trembled under his hand, "It's loose," he said.
"Take it out."
It came out after a deal of tugging.
"Put your hand in there and pull out what you find," was the next
order. Hatch obeyed. He found a wooden box, about eight inches square,
and handed it to The Thinking Machine.
"Ah!" exclaimed that gentleman.
A quick wrench caused the decaying wood to crumble. Tumbling out of
the box were the jewels which had been lost for fifty years.