"Can't see it," said Dolan at last. "It's this way. I'm twenty-seven years old. I'll get twenty years. About two of that'll come off for good behaviour, so I'll really get eighteen years. At the end of that time I'll come out with one hundred and nine thousand dollars odd-rich for life and able to retire at forty-five years. In other words while in prison I'll be working for a good, stiff salary-something really worth while. Very few men are able to retire at forty-five."
Mr. Ashe readily realized the truth of this statement. It was the point of view of a man to whom mere prison has few terrors-a man content to remain immured for twenty years for a consideration. He turned and spoke aside to the two directors again.
"But I'll tell you what I will do," said Dolan, after a pause. "If you'll fix it so I get only two years, say, I'll give you half the money."
There was silence. Detective Mallory strolled along the corridor beyond the view of the prisoner and summoned President Ashe to his side by a jerk of his head.
"Agree to that," he said. "Perhaps he'll really give up."
"But it wouldn't be possible to arrange it, would it?" asked Mr. Ashe.
"Certainly not," said the detective, "but agree to it. Get your money if you can and then we'll nail him anyhow."
Mr. Ashe stared at him a moment vaguely indignant at the treachery of the thing, then greed triumphed. He walked back to the cell.
"We'll agree to that, Mr. Dolan," he said briskly. "Fix a two years' sentence for you in return for half the money."
Dolan smiled a little.
"All right, go ahead," he said. "When sentence of two years is pronounced and a first class lawyer arranges it for me so that the matter can never be reopened I'll tell you where you can get your half."
"But of course you must tell us that now," said Mr. Ashe.
Dolan smiled cheerfully. It was a taunting, insinuating, accusing sort of smile and it informed the bank president that the duplicity contemplated was discovered. Mr. Ashe was silent for a moment, then blushed.
"Nothing doing," said Dolan, and he retired into a recess of his cell as if his interest in the matter were at an end.
"But-but we need the money now," stammered Mr. Ashe. "It was a large sum and the theft has crippled us considerably."
"All right," said Dolan carelessly. "The sooner I get two years the sooner you get it."
"How could it be-be fixed?"
"I'll leave that to you."
That was all. The bank president and the two directors went out fuming impotently. Mr. Ashe paused in Detective Mallory's office long enough for a final word.
"Of course it was brilliant work on the part of the police to capture Dolan," he said caustically, "but it isn't doing us a particle of good. All I see now is that we lose a hundred and nine thousand dollars."
"It looks very much like it," assented the detective, "unless we find it."
"Well, why don't you find it?"
Detective Mallory had to give it up.
"What did Dolan do with the money?" Hutchinson Hatch was asking of Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen-The Thinking Machine. The distinguished scientist and logician was sitting with his head pillowed on a cushion and with squint eyes turned upward. "It isn't in the flat. Everything indicates that it was hidden somewhere else."
"And Dolan's wife?" inquired The Thinking Machine in his perpetually irritated voice. "It seems conclusive that she had no idea where it is?"
"She has been put through the 'third degree,' " explained the reporter, "and if she had known she would probably have told."
"Is she living in the flat now?"
"No. She is stopping with her sister. The flat is under lock and key. Mallory has the key. He has shown the utmost care in everything he has done. Dolan has not been permitted to write to or see his wife for fear he would let her know some way where the money is; he has not been permitted to communicate with anybody at all, not even a lawyer. He did see President Ashe and two directors of the bank but naturally he wouldn't give them a message for his wife."
The Thinking Machine was silent. For five, ten, twenty minutes he sat with long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip, squinting unblinkingly at the ceiling. Hatch waited patiently.
"Of course," said the scientist at last, "one hundred and nine thousand dollars, even in large bills would make a considerable bundle and would be extremely difficult to hide in a place that has been gone over so often. We may suppose, therefore, that it isn't in the flat. What have the detectives learned as to Dolan's whereabouts after the robbery and before he was taken?"
"Nothing," replied Hatch, "nothing, absolutely. He seemed to disappear off the earth for a time. That time, I suppose, was when he was disposing of the money. His plans were evidently well laid."
"It would be possible of course, by the simple rules of logic, to sit still here and ultimately locate the money," remarked The Thinking Machine musingly, "but it would take a long time. We might begin, for instance, with the idea that he contemplated flight? When? By rail or steamer? The answers to those questions would, in a way, enlighten us as to the probable location of the money, because, remember, it would have to be placed where it was readily accessible in case of flight. But the process would be a long one. Perhaps it would be best to make Dolan tell us where he hid it."
"It would if he would tell," agreed the reporter, "but he is reticent to a degree that is maddening when the money is mentioned."
"Naturally," remarked the scientist. "That really doesn't matter. I have no doubt he will inform me."
So Hatch and The Thinking Machine called upon Detective Mallory. They found him in deep abstraction. He glanced up at the intrusion with an appearance, almost, of relief. He knew intuitively what it was.
"If you can find out where that money is, Professor" he declared emphatically, "I'll-I'll-well you can't."
The Thinking Machine squinted into the official eyes thoughtfully and the corners of his straight mouth were drawn down disapprovingly.
"I think perhaps there has been a little too much caution here, Mr. Mallory," he said. "I have no doubt Dolan will inform me as to where the money is. As I understand it his wife is practically without means?"
"Yes," was the reply. "She is living with her sister."
"And he has asked several times to be permitted to write to or see her?"
"Yes, dozens of times."
"Well, now suppose you do let him see her," suggested The Thinking Machine.
"Lord, that's just what he wants," blurted the detective. "If he ever sees her I know he will, in some way, by something he says, by a gesture, or a look inform her where the money is. As it is now I know she doesn't know where it is."
"Well, if he informs her won't he also inform us?" demanded The Thinking Machine tartly. "If Dolan wants to convey knowledge of the whereabouts of the money to his wife let him talk to her-let him give her the information. I daresay if she is clever enough to interpret a word as a clue to where the money is I am too."
The detective thought that over. He knew this crabbed little scientist with the enormous head of old; and he knew, too, some of the amazing results he had achieved by methods wholly unlike those of the police. But in this case he was frankly in doubt.
"This way," The Thinking Machine continued. "Get the wife here, let her pass Dolan's cell and speak to him so that he will know that it is her, then let her carry on a conversation with him while she is beyond his sight. Have a stenographer, without the knowledge of either, take down just what is said, word for word. Give me a transcript of the conversation, and hold the wife on some pretext until I can study it a little. If he gives her a clue I'll get the money."
There was not the slightest trace of egotism in the irritable tone. It seemed merely a statement of fact. Detective Mallory, looking at the wizened face of the logician, was doubtfully hopeful and at last he consented to the experiment. The wife was sent for and came eagerly, a stenographer was placed in the cell adjoining Dolan, and the wife was led along the corridor. As she paused in front of Dolan's cell he started toward her with an exclamation. Then she was led on a little way out of his sight.
With face pressed close against the bars Dolan glowered out upon Detective Mallory and Hatch. An expression of awful ferocity leapt into his eyes.
"What're you doing with her?" he demanded.
"Mort, Mort," she called.