The scientist heeded the suggestion, and for ten minutes or so was engrossed in the record. "These slips?" he inquired, as he looked up. "I find three of them."
"Those were the occasions when we didn't happen to have a wagon going in that direction," the manager explained; "so the box was sent by special messenger. Each messenger took a receipt and returned it here. In that way those receipts became a part of our record."
The Thinking Machine scrutinized the slips carefully, made a note of the dates on them, then closed the record book. That seemed to be all. Fifteen minutes later Plympton Burdock, father of the dead girl, received a card from a servant, glanced at it, nodded, and The Thinking Machine was ushered in.
"I should not have disturbed you, believe me, if the necessity for it had not been pressing in the interest of justice," the scientist apologized. "Just one or two questions, please."
Burdock regarded the little man curiously, and motioned to a seat.
"First," began The Thinking Machine, "was your daughter engaged to be married at the time of her-her death?"
"No," replied Burdock.
"She did receive attention, however?"
"Certainly. All girls of her age do. Really, Mr.-Mr.," and he glanced at the card,-"Mr. Van Dusen, this matter is entirely beyond discussion. We believe, my wife and I, that death was due to natural causes, and have so informed the police. I hope it may go no further."
The Thinking Machine looked at him sharply with some strange new expression in his squint eyes. "The investigation won't stop now, Mr. Burdock," he said coldly. "I don't know your object in-in seeking to stop it."
"I don't want to stop it," declared Burdock quickly. "We are convinced that no good can come of an investigation, because there is no ground for suspicion, and certainly it is not pleasant to have one's family affairs constantly pawed over when it is a foregone conclusion that nothing will result except unpleasant notoriety which merely adds to the burden that we now have to bear."
The Thinking Machine understood and nodded. It was almost an apology. "Well, just one more question, please," he said. "What is the name of the man whose attentions to your daughter you in person forbade?"
"How do you know of that?" blazed Burdock quickly.
"What is his name?" repeated The Thinking Machine.
"I will not discuss the matter further with you," was the reply.
"In the interests of justice I demand his name!" The Thinking Machine insisted.
Burdock stared at the slight figure before him with growing horror in his face. "You don't mean to say you suspect--" He stopped. "My God! if I thought that I'd-- How was she killed, if she was killed?" he concluded.
"His name, please," urged The Thinking Machine. "If you don't give it to me, you will place me under the necessity of asking the police to compel you to give it. I'd prefer not to."
Burdock seemed not to heed the speech. His face had gone perfectly white, and he stood staring past the scientist, out the window. His hands were clenched tightly and the fingers were working. "If he did! If he did!" he repeated fiercely. Suddenly he recovered himself and glared down at his visitor. "I beg your pardon," he said simply. His name is-is Paul K. Darrow."
"Of this city," said The Thinking Machine. It was not a question; it was a statement of fact.
"Of this city," repeated Burdock,-"at least formerly of this city. He left here, I am informed, four or five weeks ago."
The Thinking Machine went his way, leaving Burdock sitting with his face in his hands. A few minutes later he appeared in Detective Mallory's office at police headquarters. The officer was sitting with his feet on his desk, smoking furiously, with a dozen deep wrinkles in his brow. He hailed the scientist almost cordially, something unusual for him.
"What do you make of it?" he demanded as he arose.
"Let me see your directory for a moment, please," replied The Thinking Machine. He bent over the book, ran down a page or so of the D's, then finally looked up.
"We don't seem to be able to establish a crime, even," Detective Mallory confessed. "I had the thorns examined, and the chemist reports that there is not a trace of poison about them."
"Silly in the first place," remarked The Thinking Machine ungraciously enough. "Is the rose here?"
The detective produced it from a drawer of his desk, whereupon The Thinking Machine did several things with it which he didn't understand. First he waved it about in the air at arm's length, then took two steps forward and sniffed. Then he waved it about much closer to him and sniffed. Detective Mallory looked on in mingled curiosity and disgust. Finally the scientist held it close to his nose and sniffed, then examined the petals closely, after which he laid it on the desk again.
"And the box the rose was delivered in?" queried the scientist.
Silently the detective produced that. The Thinking Machine sniffed at it cautiously, then turned it over to examine the handwriting on the address.
"Know who wrote this?" he inquired.
"Some one at the florist's," was the reply.
"Can you lend me a man for half an hour or so?" asked the scientist next.
"Oh, I suppose so," grumbled Detective Mallory. "But what's it all about, anyway?"
"Perhaps I may be able to tell you at the end of the half hour," The Thinking Machine assured him. "Meanwhile lend me the man you said I could have."
Detective Downey was called in, and the diminutive scientist led him into the hall, where he gave him some definite directions. Downey went out the front door at full speed. The Thinking Machine returned to Detective Mallory's private room, to find the officer sulking, like a boy.
"Where'd you send him?" he growled.
"Wait till he comes back and I'll tell you," was the reply. "It isn't necessary to get excited about something that we know nothing of. I'm saving you some excitement."
He dropped back into a chair and sat there idly twiddling his thumbs while Detective Mallory glared at him. After a few minutes the door was thrown open violently and Hutchinson Hatch entered. He was frankly excited.
"Well?" demanded The Thinking Machine without looking round.
"When she smelled that crushed kernel she fainted!" said Hatch explosively.
"Fainted?" repeated the scientist. "Fainted?" The tone was hardly one of surprise, and yet--
"Yes, she took one whiff, and screamed and went right over," the reporter rushed on.
"Dear me! Dear me!" commented The Thinking Machine. He sat still looking up. "Wait a few minutes," he advised. "Let's see what Downey gets."
At the end of fifteen minutes Downey returned. His chief glared at him curiously as he entered and handed a piece of paper to The Thinking Machine. That imperturbable man of science examined the paper closely, then handed it to Detective Mallory.
"Is that the handwriting on the flower box?" he asked.
Mallory, Downey, and Hatch compared it together. The verdict was unanimous: "Yes."
"Then the man who wrote it is the man you want," declared The Thinking Machine flatly. "His name is Paul K. Darrow. Detective Downey knows his address."
Two days passed. Professor Van Dusen stood beside his laboratory table poking idly at the dismembered legs of a frog with a short copper wire. Each time the point touched the flesh there was a spasmodic twitching of the limbs, a simulation of living contraction and extension. There beside the table Hutchinson Hatch found him.
"Watch this a moment, Mr. Hatch," requested the scientist. "It bears, in a way, on our problem in hand."
Then began a rhythmic swinging of his slender hand, not unlike the beat of the musician's baton, the wire touching the frog's legs at each downward swing. Hatch had seen a similar demonstration before.