When the clatter of the running footsteps had died away and Hatch
heard the outer door slam, he entered the studio, closing the door
behind him. It was close here, and there was a breath of Chinese
incense which was almost stifling. One quick glance by the light of an
incandescent told Hatch that he stood in the reception-room.
Typically, from floor to ceiling, the place was the abode of an
artist; there was a rich gradation of color and everywhere were scraps
of art and half-finished studies.
The reporter had given up the idea of solving the mystery of why St.
George had so suddenly left his apartments; now he devoted himself to
a quick, minute search of the place. He found nothing to interest him
in the reception-room, and went on into the studio where the artist
did his work.
Hatch glanced around quickly, his eyes taking in all the details, then
went to a little table which stood, half-covered with newspapers. He
turned these over, then bent forward suddenly and picked up--a woman's
glove. Beside it lay its mate. He stuffed them into his pocket.
Eagerly he sought now for anything that might come to hand. At last he
reached another door, leading into the bedroom. Here on a large table
was a chafing dish, many dishes which had not been washed, and all the
other evidences of a careless man who did a great deal of his own
cooking. There was a dresser here, too, a gorgeous, mahogany affair.
Hatch didn't stop to admire this because his eye was attracted by a
woman's veil which lay on it. He thrust it into his pocket.
"Quite a haul I'm making," he mused, grimly.
From this room a door, half open, led into a bathroom. Hatch merely
glanced in, then looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had elapsed. He
must get out, and he started for the outer door. As he opened it
quietly and stepped into the hall he heard the street door open one
flight below, and started down the steps. There, half way, he met St.
George.
"Mr. St. George?" he asked.
"No," was the reply.
Hatch knew his man perfectly, because he had seen him half a dozen
times and had talked to him twice. The denial of identity therefore
was futile.
"I came to tell you that Grace Field, the model for your
'Fulfillment,' has disappeared," Hatch went on, as the other glared at
him.
"I don't care," snapped the other. He darted up the steps. Hatch
listened until he heard the door of the studio close.
It was ten minutes to ten o'clock when Hatch left the building. Now he
would see Miss Stanford and have her identify the gloves and the veil.
He boarded a car and drew out and closely examined the gloves and
veil. The gloves were tan, rather heavy, but small, and the veil was
of some light, cobwebby material which he didn't know by name.
"If these are Grace Field's," the reporter argued, to himself, "it
means something. If they are not, I'm simply a burglar."
There was a light in the Dorchester house where Miss Stanford lived,
and the reporter rang the bell. A servant appeared.
"Would it be possible for me to see Miss Stanford for just a moment?"
he asked.
"If she has not gone to bed."
He was ushered into the little parlor again. The servant disappeared,
and after a moment Miss Stanford came in.
"I hated to trouble you so late," said the reporter, and she smiled at
him frankly, "but I would like to ask if you have ever seen these?"
He laid in her hands the gloves and the veil. Miss Stanford studied
them carefully and her hands trembled.
"The gloves, I know, are Grace's--the veil I am not so positive
about," she replied.
Hatch felt a great wave of exultation sweep over him, and it stopped
his tongue for an instant.
"Did you--did you find them in Mr. Willis's possession?" asked the
girl.
"I am not at liberty to tell just where I found them," Hatch replied.
"If they are Miss Field's--and you can swear to that, I suppose--it
may mean that we have a clew."
"Oh, I was afraid it would be this way," gasped the girl, and she sank
down weeping on a couch.
"Knew what would be which way?" asked Hatch, puzzled.
"I knew it! I knew it!" she sobbed. "Is there anything to connect Mr.
Willis directly with the--_the murder?_"
The reporter started to say something, then paused. He wasn't quite
sure of himself. He had uncovered something, he didn't know what yet.
"It would be better, Miss Stanford," he explained, gently, "if you
would tell me all you know about this affair. The things which are now
in my possession are fragmentary--if you could give me any new detail
it would be only serving the ends of justice."
For a little while the girl was silent, then she arose and faced him.
"Is Mr. Willis yet under arrest?" she asked, calmly now.
"Not yet," said the reporter.
"Then I will say nothing else," she declared, and her lips closed in a
straight line.
"What was the motive for murder?" Hatch insisted.
"I will say nothing else," she replied, firmly. "And what makes you
positive there was murder?"
"Good-night. You need not come again, for I will not see you."
Miss Stanford turned and left the room. Hatch, sadly puzzled,
bewildered, stood staring after her a moment, then went out, his brain
alive with possibilities, with intangible ends which would not be
connected. He was eager to lay the new facts before The Thinking
Machine.
From Dorchester the reporter took a car for his home. In his room,
with the tangible threads of the mystery spread out on a table, he
thought and surmised far into the night, and when he finally replaced
them all in his pocket and turned down the light it was with a
hopeless shake of his head.
On the following morning when Hatch arose he picked up a paper and
went to breakfast. He spread the paper before him and there--the first
thing he saw--was a huge headline, stating that a burglar had entered
the room of Constans St. George and had tried to kill Mr. St. George.
A shot had been fired at him and had passed through his left arm.
Mr. St. George had been asleep when the door of his apartments was
burst in by the thief. The artist arose at the noise, and as he
stepped into the reception-room had been shot. The wound was trivial.
The burglar escaped; there was no clew.