"Mahogany," Hatch replied.
"Good, very good. Now, Mr. Hatch, you go to Boston, see this young man, Willard Clements, the real estate collector. Don't be afraid to ask him questions. Ask him pointedly if he happens to be acquainted with a burglar. It will be an interesting experiment. Find out all you can about him and meet me at my apartments at 8 o'clock to-night. I have a little further work to do here."
"Lord, did he do it?" asked Hatch.
"I don't know," was the reply. "It would be interesting to know what he knows."
Had Hatch not known the peculiar methods of The Thinking Machine, he would have been bewildered by these instructions. As it was, he was merely seeking in his own mind a possible connecting thread between Clements and the mystery. Disregarding Clements for the moment, he could only see Wilkes, who knew the girl, or Hassan, who owned the dagger, in the affair.
Once alone, The Thinking Machine did several things which would have sadly puzzled an outsider. From the back door he examined the ground and even stooped and stared at the grass. Slowly he walked along, half stooping, toward the back of the plot of ground. There he shook the picket fence, which barred his way. It was apparently a new fence, yet a whole panel of it fell. Outside was an alley.
From this point he went to the house of the nearest neighbor and asked many questions about strangers who might have been in the other yard. None had been seen. Finally, he asked the way and was directed to the nearest police station.
"Have many burglaries been reported in this neighborhood lately?" he asked, after he had introduced himself.
"Three of four. Why?"
"Have you heard of any furnished house, at present unoccupied, which has been robbed?"
"Yes, the old Essex estate-about four blocks from here."
"What was stolen, exactly?"
"We don't know. The owners of the house are in Europe now, and we have no means of learning just what is missing. We have caught the men who robbed it."
"What are their name, please?"
"One is called 'Reddy' Blake, the other gave the name of Johnson."
"Where were they caught?"
"In the house. They had a wagon and were trying to move out a heavy mahogany sideboard."
"When was this?"
"Oh, a week or so ago. They got three years each."
"No other similar cases?"
"No."
"Thank you," and The Thinking Machine went away. That night Hutchinson Hatch called on the scientist and found him with a telegram in his hands.
"Did you see Clements?" asked The Thinking Machine, "and did you ask him if he knew a burglar?"
"I did," said Hatch, smiling slightly. "He wanted to fight."
The Thinking Machine unfolded the telegram and handed it to the reporter.
"This might interest you," he said.
Hatch took the yellow slip and read the following:
"Ali Hassan committee suicide this morning."
"Why that's a confession," said the reporter.
VI.
There was a gathering of a half a dozen persons in the office of the Chief of Police on the morning of the following day. They were the chief, The Thinking Machine, Charles Wilkes, Detective Fahey, Willard Clements and Hutchinson Hatch. The summons to Clements had been in the nature of a great surprise to that young man. First he had been indignant, but gradually this passed, and there came instead a cowering attitude.
Every one, even the chief, was waiting the pleasure of The Thinking Machine. Hatch, still firmly convinced that Hassan, the Turk, was the criminal, was almost as much surprised as Clements by his presence.
Detective Fahey sat silently by, chewing his cigar and with a slightly amused smile on his face; the chief didn't smile. He had felt the vital power of this diminutive man with the enormous yellow head.
"Now, Mr. Clements," The Thinking Machine began, and the young man started slightly, "I don't believe that you killed Miss Gorham. Perhaps the worst charge that can be laid to you is burglary, or, rather, illicit knowledge of burglary. Your friends, 'Reddy' Blake and this man Johnson have already partially confessed. Now, will you tell the rest of it?"
"Confessed what? What are you talking about?" demanded the young man.
"Never mind, then," said The Thinking Machine, impatiently. He turned to the chief. "Fortune has favored us a good deal in this case," he said. "Particularly is this true in the arrest of Mr. Wilkes. I may compliment you chief on the ability your men displayed in getting Mr. Wilkes."
The chief bowed gravely.
"But he is not the murderer."
The scientist went on:
"By telegraph and cable I have verified his story in full. You may have done so yourself. Here are the answers I received to the wires I sent. I think, perhaps, they will convince you. Meanwhile, you have the real murderer in Charlestown prison now. It is 'Reddy' Blake, or Johnson."
At the second mention of these two names every eye was again turned on Clements. A sudden change had come over his face. He was now frightened; the color was surging back into Wilkes's countenance.
"Proofs, proofs," said the chief, shortly.
"It will be useless," continued The Thinking Machine, "to rehearse Mr. Wilkes's story. It is proven. Therefore, what remains? Let's begin with the dagger and see what it leads to.
"I saw this dagger. It is an extraordinary weapon. Its value must be in the thousands. On it I saw, cut into the handle, the crescent of Turkey, together with half a dozen symbols, religious and otherwise, of that empire. It was a simple matter, comparatively, to call up on the 'phone some one who knew of these things, preferably a Turk. There is a Turk in one of the oriental stores on Boylston Street.
"I talked to him and described the dagger in detail. He is an educated man, knows his country and its customs and was able to say that such a dagger could only have been what I had previously supposed it to have been-a gift from a prince or ruler to a loyal subject for duty well done. I asked if he knew of such a weapon being in this country. He said he did not, but that a certain Turkish gentleman, then in Boston, had once signally served his master, and there was a possibility that he had been rewarded by such a gift. What was his name? Ali Hassan.
"Mr. Hassan was stopping at the Hotel Teutonic. I wrote a note to him. He called and readily identified a photograph of the golden dagger as his property. Remember that this was a photograph of the dagger with which the girl was slain.
"He amazed me a little by stating that the dagger was then in his possession. At the same time he explained that it was a sacred object and not for the eyes of infidels. For a time this was puzzling. Then I asked what would be the result if, by any chance, the dagger should pass out of his possession. He replied that he would kill himself. That was an illuminating point. He had lied; he did not have the dagger. If any one else had known that he did not have it, it would have been his death. He saved his life thus far by lying. It has been done before. I may say, too, that the idea of a duplicate dagger was not tenable."
"If this man owns the dagger and admits it," interrupted the chief, "I will have him immediately arrested."
"There are two reasons why you can't do that," said The Thinking Machine, quietly. "The first is that Mr. Hassan was a secretary of the Turkish legation in Washington; the second, he is dead."