"No," declared the financier; "she didn't even leave her desk."
"Or perhaps sent something out-manifolds of the letters?"
"No."
"Or called up a friend on the telephone?" continued The Thinking Machine quietly.
"Nor that," retorted Grayson.
"Or signaled to some one through the widow?"
"No," said the financier again. "She finished the letters, then remained quietly at her desk, reading a book. She didn't move for two hours."
The Thinking Machine lowered his eyes and glared straight into those of the financier. "Some one listened at the window?" he went on after a moment.
"No. It is six stories up, fronting the street, and there is no fire escape."
"Or the door?"
"If you knew the arrangement of my offices, you would see how utterly impossible that would be, because--"
"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Grayson," snapped the scientist abruptly. "It might be improbable, but not impossible. Don't say that-it annoys me exceedingly." He was silent for a moment. Grayson stared at him blankly. "Did either you or she answer a call on the phone?"
"No one called; we called no one."
"Any apertures-holes or cracks-in your flooring or walls or ceilings?" demanded the scientist.
"Private detectives whom I had employed looked for such an opening, and there was none," replied Grayson.
Again The Thinking Machine was silent for a long time. Grayson lighted a fresh cigar and settled back in his chair patiently. Faint cobwebby lines began to appear on the dome-like brow of the scientist, and slowly the squint eyes were narrowing.
"The letters you wrote were intercepted?" he suggested at last.
"No," exclaimed Grayson flatly. "Those letters were sent direct to the brokers by a dozen different methods, and everyone of them had been delivered by five minutes of ten o'clock, when 'Change begins business. The last one left me at ten minutes of ten."
"Dear me! Dear me!" The Thinking Machine arose and paced the length of the room thrice.
"You don't give me credit for the extraordinary precautions I have taken, particularly in this last P., Q. & X. deal," Grayson continued. "I left positively nothing undone to insure absolute secrecy. And Miss Winthrop I know is innocent of any connection with the affair. The private detectives suspected her at first, as you do, and she was watched in and out of my office for weeks. When she was not under my eyes, she was under the eyes of men to whom I had promised an extravagant sum of money if they found the leak. She didn't know it then, and doesn't know it now. I am heartily ashamed of it all, because the investigation proved her absolute loyalty to me. On this last day she was directly under my eyes for two hours; and she didn't make one movement that I didn't note, because the thing meant millions to me. That proved beyond all question that it was no fault of hers. What could I do?"
The Thinking Machine didn't say. He paused at a window, and for minute after minute stood motionless there, with eyes narrowed down to mere slits.
"I was on the point of discharging Miss Winthrop," the financier went on; "but her innocence was so thoroughly proved to me by this last affair that it would have been unjust, and so--"
Suddenly the scientist turned upon his visitor. "Do you talk in your sleep?" he demanded.
"No," was the prompt reply. "I had thought of that too. It is beyond all ordinary things, professor. Yet there is a leak that is costing me millions."
"It comes down to this, Mr. Grayson," The Thinking Machine informed him crabbedly enough. "If only you and Miss Winthrop knew those plans, and no one else, and they did leak, and were not deduced from other things, then either you or she permitted them to leak, intentionally or unintentionally. That is as pure logic as that two and two make four; there is no need to argue it."
"Well, of course, I didn't," said Grayson.
"Then Miss Winthrop did," declared The Thinking Machine finally, positively; "unless we credit the opposition, as you call it, with telepathic gifts hitherto unheard of. By the way, you have referred to the other side only as the opposition. Do the same men, the same clique, appear against you all the time, or is it only one man?"
"It's a clique," explained the financier, "with millions back of it, headed by Ralph Matthews, a young man to whom I give credit for being the prime factor against me." His lips were set sternly.
"Why?" demanded the scientist.
"Because every time he sees me he grins," was the reply. Grayson seemed suddenly discomfited.
The Thinking Machine went to a desk, addressed an envelop, folded a sheet of paper, placed it inside, then sealed it. At length he turned back to his visitor. "Is Miss Winthrop at your office now?"
"Yes."
"Let us go there, then."
A few minutes later the eminent financier ushered the eminent scientist into his private office on the Street. The only other person there was a young woman,-a woman of twenty-six or seven, perhaps,-who turned, saw Grayson, and resumed reading. The financier motioned to a seat. Instead of sitting, however, The Thinking Machine went straight to Miss Winthrop and extended a sealed envelop to her.
"Mr. Ralph Matthews asked me to hand you this," he said.
The young woman glanced up into his face frankly, yet with a certain timidity, took the envelop, and turned it curiously in her hand.
"Mr. Ralph Matthews," she repeated, as if the name was a strange one. "I don't think I know him."
The Thinking Machine stood staring at her aggressively, insolently even, as she opened the envelop and drew out the sheet of paper. There was no expression save surprise-bewilderment, rather-to be read on her face.
"Why, it's a blank sheet!" she remarked, puzzled.
The scientist turned away suddenly toward Grayson, who had witnessed the incident with frank astonishment in his eyes. "Your telephone a moment, please," he requested.
"Certainly; here," replied Grayson.
"This will do," remarked the scientist.
He leaned forward over the desk where Miss Winthrop sat, still gazing at him in a sort of bewilderment, picked up the receiver, and held it to his ear. A few moments later he was talking to Hutchinson Hatch, reporter.
"I merely wanted to ask you to meet me at my apartments in an hour," said the scientist. "It is very important."
That was all. He hung up the receiver, paused for a moment to admire an exquisitely wrought silver box-a "vanity" box-on Miss Winthrop's desk, beside the telephone, then took a seat beside Grayson and began to discourse almost pleasantly upon the prevailing meteorological conditions. Grayson merely stared; Miss Winthrop continued her reading.
Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, distinguished scientist, and Hutchinson Hatch, newspaper reporter, were poking round among the chimney pots and other obstructions on the roof of a skyscraper. Far below them the slumber enshrouded city was spread out like a panorama, streets dotted brilliantly with arc lights, and roofs hazily visible through the mists of night. Above, the infinite blackness hung like a veil, with star points breaking through here and there.
"Here are the wires," Hatch said at last, and he stooped.
The Thinking Machine knelt on the roof beside him, and for several minutes they remained thus in the darkness, with only the glow of an electric flash to indicate their presence. Finally The Thinking Machine rose.
"That's the wire you want, Mr. Hatch," he said. "I'll leave the rest of it to you."