Excitement, long restrained, burst from Hatch in a laugh--almost
hysterical. He stooped and gathered up the fallen jewelry and handed
it to The Thinking Machine, who stared at him in mild surprise.
"What's the matter?" inquired the scientist.
"Nothing," Hatch assured him, but again he laughed.
The heavy stone which had been pulled out of place was lifted up and
forced back into position, and together they returned to the village,
with the long-lost jewelry loose in their pockets.
"How did you do it?" asked Hatch.
"Two and two always make four," was the enigmatic reply. "It was
merely a sum in addition." There was a pause as they walked on, then:
"Don't say anything about finding this, or even hint at it in any way,
until you have my permission to do so."
Hatch had no intention of doing so. In his mind's eye he saw a story,
a great, vivid, startling story spread all over his newspaper about
flaming phantoms and treasure trove--$100,000 in jewels. It staggered
him. Of course he would say nothing about it--even hint at it, yet.
But when he did say something about it----!
In the village The Thinking Machine found the constable.
"I understand some blood was thrown on you at the Weston place the
other night?"
"Yes. Blood--warm blood."
"You wiped it off with your handkerchief?"
"Yes."
"Have you the handkerchief?"
"I suppose I might get it," was the doubtful reply. "It might have
gone into the wash."
"Astute person," remarked The Thinking Machine. "There might have been
a crime and you throw away the one thing which would indicate it--the
blood stains."
The constable suddenly took notice.
"By ginger!" he said. "Wait here and I'll go see if I can find it."
He disappeared and returned shortly with the handkerchief. There were
half a dozen blood stains on it, now dark brown.
The Thinking Machine dropped into the village drug store and had a
short conversation with the owner, after which he disappeared into the
compounding room at the back and remained for an hour or more--until
darkness set in. Then he came out and joined Hatch, who, with the
constable, had been waiting.
The reporter did not ask any questions, and The 'Thinking Machine
volunteered no information.
"Is it too late for anyone to get down from Boston to-night?" he asked
the constable.
"No. He could take the eight o'clock train and be here about half-past
nine."
"Mr. Hatch, will you wire to Mr. Weston--Ernest Weston--and ask him to
come to-night, sure. Impress on him the fact that it is a matter of
the greatest importance."
Instead of telegraphing, Hatch went to the telephone and spoke to
Weston at his club. The trip would interfere with some other plans,
the broker explained, but he would come. The Thinking Machine had
meanwhile been conversing with the constable and had given some sort
of instructions which evidently amazed that official exceedingly, for
he kept repeating "By ginger!" with considerable fervor.
"And not one word or hint of it to anyone," said The Thinking Machine.
"Least of all to the members of your family."
"By ginger!" was the response, and the constable went to supper.
The Thinking Machine and Hatch had their supper thoughtfully that
evening in the little village "hotel." Only once did Hatch break this
silence.
"You told me to see Weston's handwriting," he said. "Of course you
knew he was with the constable and myself when we saw the THING,
therefore it would have been impossible----"
"Nothing is impossible," broke in The Thinking Machine. "Don't say
that, please."
"I mean that, as he was with us----"
"We'll end the ghost story to-night," interrupted the scientist.
Ernest Weston arrived on the nine-thirty train and had a long, earnest
conversation with The Thinking Machine, while Hatch was permitted to
cool his toes in solitude. At last they joined the reporter.
"Take a revolver by all means," instructed The Thinking Machine.
"Do you think that necessary?" asked Weston.
"It is--absolutely," was the emphatic response.
Weston left them after awhile. Hatch wondered where he had gone, but
no information was forthcoming. In a general sort of way he knew that
The Thinking Machine was to go to the haunted house, but he didn't
know then; he didn't even know if he was to accompany him.
At last they started, The Thinking Machine swinging a hammer he had
borrowed from his landlord. The night was perfectly black, even the
road at their feet was invisible. They stumbled frequently as they
walked on up the cliff toward the house, dimly standing out against
the sky. They entered by way of the kitchen, passed through to the
stairs in the main hall, and there Hatch indicated in the darkness the
spot from which he had twice seen the flaming phantom.
"You go in the drawing-room behind here," The Thinking Machine
instructed. "Don't make any noise whatever."
For hours they waited, neither seeing the other. Hatch heard his heart
thumping heavily; if only he could see the other man; with an effort
he recovered from a rapidly growing nervousness and waited, waited.
The Thinking Machine sat perfectly rigid on the stair, the hammer in
his right hand, squinting steadily through the darkness.
At last he heard a noise, a slight nothing; it might almost have been
his imagination. It was as if something had glided across the floor,
and he was more alert than ever. Then came the dread misty light in
the reception-hall, or was it in the library? He could not say. But he
looked, looked, with every sense alert.
Gradually the light grew and spread, a misty whiteness which was
unmistakably light, but which did not illuminate anything around it.
The Thinking Machine saw it without the tremor of a nerve; saw the
mistiness grow more marked in certain places, saw these lines
gradually grow into the figure of a person, a person who was the
center of a white light.
Then the mistiness fell away and The Thinking Machine saw the outline
in bold relief. It was that of a tall figure, clothed in a robe, with
head covered by a sort of hood, also luminous. As The Thinking Machine
looked he saw an arm raised, and in the hand he saw a dagger. The
attitude of the figure was distinctly a threat. And yet The Thinking
Machine had not begun to grow nervous; he was only interested.
As he looked, the other hand of the apparition was raised and seemed
to point directly at him. It moved through the air in bold sweeps, and
The Thinking Machine saw the word "Death," written in air luminously,
swimming before his eyes. Then he blinked incredulously. There came a
wild, demoniacal shriek of laughter from somewhere. Slowly, slowly the
scientist crept down the steps in his stocking feet, slick as the
apparition itself, with the hammer still in his hand. He crept on, on
toward the figure. Hatch, not knowing the movements of The Thinking
Machine, stood waiting for something, he didn't know what. Then the
thing he had been waiting for happened. There was a sudden loud
clatter as of broken glass, the phantom and writing faded, crumbled
up, disappeared, and somewhere in the old house there was the hurried
sound of steps. At last the reporter heard his name called quietly. It
was The Thinking Machine.
"Mr. Hatch, come here."
The reporter started, blundering through the darkness toward the point
whence the voice had come. Some irresistible thing swept down upon
him; a crashing blow descended on his head, vivid lights flashed
before his eyes; he fell. After awhile, from a great distance, it
seemed, he heard faintly a pistol shot.