The blunt question aroused the girl, and she arose suddenly, staring
at The Thinking Machine. He did not move. She stood as if transfixed,
and Hatch saw her bosom rise and fall rapidly with the emotion she was
seeking to repress.
"Well?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"I don't know," flamed Miss Stanford, suddenly, almost fiercely. "I
don't even know she is dead. I know that Mr. Willis did not kill her,
because, as that letter I gave you shows, he was in Springfield. I
won't be tricked into saying anything further."
The outburst had no appreciable effect on The Thinking Machine beyond
causing him to raise his eyebrows slightly as he looked at the defiant
little figure.
"When did you last see Mr. Willis have a revolver?"
"I know nothing of any revolver. I know only that Victor Willis is
innocent as you are, and that I love him. Whatever has become of Grace
Field I don't know."
Tears leaped suddenly to her eyes, and, turning, she left the room.
After a moment they heard the outer door slam as she passed out. Hatch
turned to the scientist with a question in his eyes.
"Did you smell anything like chloroform or ether when you were in St.
George's apartments?" asked The Thinking Machine as he arose.
"No," said Hatch. "I only noticed that the place seemed close, and
there was an odor of Chinese incense--joss sticks--which was almost
stifling."
The Thinking Machine looked at the reporter quickly, but said nothing.
Instead, he passed out of the room, to return a few minutes later with
his hat and coat on.
"Where are we going?" asked Hatch.
"To St. George's studio," was the answer.
Just then the telephone bell in the next room rang. The scientist
answered it in person.
"Your City Editor," he called to Hatch.
Hatch went to the 'phone and remained there several minutes. When he
came back there was a new excitement in his face.
"What is it?" asked the scientist.
"Another queer thing my City Editor told me," Hatch responded.
"Constans St. George, raving mad, has escaped from the hospital and
disappeared."
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the scientist, quickly. It was as near
surprise as he ever showed. "Then there is danger."
With quick steps he went to the telephone and called up Police
Headquarters.
"Detective Mallory," Hatch heard him ask for. "Yes. This is Professor
Van Dusen. Please meet me immediately here at my house. Be here in ten
minutes? Good. I'll wait. It's a matter of great importance. Good-by."
Then impatiently The Thinking Machine moved about, waiting. The
reporter, whose acquaintance with the logician was an extended one,
had never seen him in just such a state. It started when he heard St.
George had escaped.
At last they left the house and stood waiting on the steps until
Detective Mallory appeared in a cab. Into that Hatch and The Thinking
Machine climbed, after the latter had given some direction, and the
cabby drove rapidly away. It was all a mystery to Hatch, and he was
rather glad of it when Detective Mallory asked what it meant.
"Means that there is danger of a tragedy," said The Thinking Machine,
crustily. "We may be in time to avert it. There is just a chance. If
I'd only known this an hour ago--even half an hour ago--it might have
been stopped."
The Thinking Machine was the first man out of the cab when it stopped,
and Hatch and the detective followed quickly.
"Is Mr. St. George in his apartments?" asked the scientist of the
elevator boy.
"No, sir," said the boy. "He's in hospital, shot."
"Is there a key to his place? Quick."
"I think so, sir, but I can't give it to you."
"Here, give it to me, then!" exclaimed the detective. He flashed a
badge in the boy's eyes, and the youth immediately lost a deal of his
coolness.
"Gee, a detective! Yes, sir."
"How many rooms has Mr. St. George?" asked the scientist.
"Three and a bath," the boy responded.
Two minutes later the three men stood in the reception-room of the
apartments. There came to them from somewhere inside a deadly,
stifling odor of chloroform. After one glance around The Thinking
Machine rushed into the next room, the studio.
"Dear me, dear me!" he exclaimed.
There on the floor lay huddled the figure of a man. Blood had run from
several wounds on his head. The Thinking Machine stooped a moment, and
his slender fingers fumbled over the heart.
"Unconscious, that's all," he said, and he raised the man up.
"Victor Willis!" exclaimed Hatch.
"Victor Willis!" repeated The Thinking Machine, as if puzzled. "Are
you sure?"
"Certain," said Hatch, positively. "It's the bank clerk."
"Then we are too late," declared the scientist.
He arose and looked about the room. A door to his right attracted his
attention. He jerked it open and peered in. It was a clothes press.
Another small door on the other side of the room was also thrown open.
Here was a kitchenette, with a great quantity of canned stuffs.
The Thinking Machine went on into the little bedroom which Hatch had
searched. He flung open the bathroom and peered in, only to shut it
immediately. Then he tried the handle of another door, a closet. It
was fastened.
"Ah!" he exclaimed.
Then on his hands and knees he sniffed at the crack between the door
and the flooring. Suddenly, as if satisfied, he arose and stepped away
from the door.
"Smash that door in," he directed.
Detective Mallory looked at him stupefied. There was a similar
expression on Hatch's face.
"'What's--what's in there?" the detective asked. "Smash it," said the
other, tartly. "Smash it, or God knows what you'll find in there."
The detective, a powerful man, and Hatch threw their weight against
the door; it stood rigid. They pulled at the handle; it refused to
yield.
"Lend me your revolver?" asked The Thinking Machine.
The weapon was in his hand almost before the detective was aware of
it, and, placing the barrel to the keyhole, The Thinking Machine
pulled the trigger. There was a resonant report, the lock was smashed
and the detective put out his hand to open the door.
"Look out for a shot," warned The Thinking Machine, sharply.