"Belle, is it you?" he asked in turn.
"They told me you wanted to talk to me," explained the wife. She was panting fiercely as she struggled to shake off the hands which held her beyond his reach.
"What sort of a game is this, Mallory?" demanded the prisoner.
"You've wanted to talk to her," Mallory replied, "now go ahead. You may talk, but you must not see her."
"Oh, that's it, eh?" snarled Dolan. "What did you bring her here for then? Is she under arrest?"
"Mort, Mort," came his wife's voice again. "They won't let me come where I can see you."
There was utter silence for a moment. Hatch was overpowered by a feeling that he was intruding upon a family tragedy, and tiptoed beyond reach of Dolan's roving eyes to where The Thinking Machine was sitting on a stool, twiddling his fingers. After a moment the detective joined them.
"Belle?" called Dolan again. It was almost a whisper.
"Don't say anything, Mort," she panted. "Cunningham and Blanton are holding me-the others are listening."
"I don't want to say anything," said Dolan easily. "I did want to see you. I wanted to know if you are getting along all right. Are you still at the flat?"
"No, at my sister's," was the reply. "I have no money-I can't stay at the flat."
"You know they're going to send me away?"
"Yes," and there was almost a sob in the voice. "I-I know it."
"That I'll get the limit-twenty years?"
"Yes."
"Can you-get along?" asked Dolan solicitously. "Is there anything you can do for yourself?"
"I will do something," was the reply. "Oh, Mort, Mort, why--"
"Oh never mind that," he interrupted impatiently. "It doesn't do any good to regret things. It isn't what I planned for, little girl, but it's here so-so I'll meet it. I'll get the good behaviour allowance-that'll save two years, and then--"
There was a menace in the tone which was not lost upon the listeners.
"Eighteen years," he heard her moan.
For one instant Dolan's lips were pressed tightly together and in that instant he had a regret-regret that he had not killed Blanton and Cunningham rather than submit to capture. He shook off his anger with an effort.
"I don't know if they'll permit me ever to see you," he said, desperately, "as long as I refuse to tell where the money is hidden, and I know they'll never permit me to write to you for fear I'll tell you where it is. So I suppose the good-bye'll be like this. I'm sorry, little girl."
He heard her weeping and hurled himself against the bars in a passion; it passed after a moment. He must not forget that she was penniless, and the money-that vast fortune--!
"There's one thing you must do for me, Belle," he said after a moment, more calmly. "This sort of thing doesn't do any good. Brace up, little girl, and wait-wait for me. Eighteen years is not forever, we're both young, and-but never mind that. I wish you would please go up to the flat and-do you remember my heavy, brown coat?"
"Yes, the old one?" she asked.
"That's it," he answered. "It's cold here in this cell. Will you please go up to the flat when they let you loose and sew up that tear under the right arm and send it to me here? It's probably the last favour I'll ask of you for a long time so will you do it this afternoon?"
"Yes," she answered, tearfully.
"The rip is under the right arm, and be certain to sew it up," said Dolan again. "Perhaps, when I am tried, I shall have a chance to see you and--"
The Thinking Machine arose and stretched himself a little.
"That's all that's necessary, Mr. Mallory," he said. "Have her held until I tell you to release her."
Mallory made a motion to Cunningham and Blanton and the woman was led away, screaming. Hatch shuddered a little, and Dolan, not understanding, flung himself against the bars of his cell like a caged animal.
"Clever, aren't you?" he snarled as he caught sight of Detective Mallory. "Thought I'd try to tell her where it was, but I didn't and you never will know where it is-not in a thousand years."
Accompanied by The Thinking Machine and Hatch the detective went back to his private office. All were silent but the detective glanced from time to time into the eyes of the scientist.
"Now, Mr. Hatch, we have the whereabouts of the money settled," said Thinking Machine, quietly. "Please go at once to the flat and bring the brown coat Dolan mentioned. I daresay the secret of the hidden money is somewhere in that coat."
"But two of my men have already searched that coat," protested the detective.
"That doesn't make the least difference," snapped the scientist.
The reporter went out without a word. Half an hour later he returned with the brown coat. It was a commonplace looking garment, badly worn and in sad need of repair not only in the rip under the arm but in other places. When he saw it The Thinking Machine nodded his head abruptly as if it were just what he had expected.
"The money can't be in that and I'll bet my head on it," declared Detective Mallory, flatly. "There isn't room for it."
The Thinking Machine gave him a glance in which there was a touch of pity.
"We know," he said, "that the money isn't in this coat. But can't you see that it is perfectly possible that a slip of paper on which Dolan has written down the hiding place of the money can be hidden in it somewhere? Can't you see that he asked for this coat-which is not as good a one as the one he is wearing now-in order to attract his wife's attention to it? Can't you see it is the one definite thing that he mentioned when he knew that in all probability he would not be permitted to see his wife again, at least for a long time?"
Then, seam by seam, the brown coat was ripped to pieces. Each piece in turn was submitted to the sharpest scrutiny. Nothing resulted. Detective Mallory frankly regarded it all as wasted effort and when there remained nothing of the coat save strips of cloth and lining he was inclined to be triumphant. The Thinking Machine was merely thoughtful.
"It went further back than that," the scientist mused, and tiny wrinkles appeared in the dome-like brow. "Ah! Mr. Hatch please go back to the flat, look in the sewing machine drawers, or work basket and you will find a spool of brown thread. Bring it to me."
"Spool of brown thread?" repeated the detective in amazement. "Have you been through the place?"
"No."
"How do you know there's a spool of brown thread there, then?"
"I know it because Mr. Hatch will bring it back to me," snapped The Thinking Machine. "I know it by the simplest, most rudimentary rules of logic."
Hatch went out again. In half an hour he returned with a spool of brown thread. The Thinking Machine's white fingers seized upon it eagerly, and his watery, squint eyes examined it. A portion of it had been used-the spool was only half gone. But he noted-and as he did his eyes reflected a glitter of triumph-he noted that the paper cap on each end was still in place.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," he said, "I'll demonstrate to you that in Dolan the police are dealing with a man far beyond the ordinary bank thief. In his way he is a genius. Look here!"
With a pen-knife he ripped off the paper caps and looked through the hole of the spool. For an instant his face showed blank amazement. Then he put the spool down on the table and squinted at it for a moment in absolute silence.
"It must be here," he said at last. "It must be, else why did he-of course!"