That was all. The Thinking Machine sat with his enormous yellow head pillowed against a high-backed chair and his long slender fingers pressed tip to tip. He asked no questions and made no comment for a long time, then:
"About how many minutes was it from the time she entered the house until she came out again?"
"Not more than ten or fifteen," was the reply. "I was still talking casually to the people down stairs trying to find out something about them."
"What do they pay for their apartment?" asked the scientist, irrelevantly.
"Three hundred dollars a month."
The Thinking Machine's squint eyes were fixed immovably on a small discoloured spot on the ceiling of his laboratory.
"Whatever else may develop in this matter, Mr. Hatch," he said after a time, "we must admit that we have met a woman with extraordinary courage-nerve, I daresay you'd call it. When Mrs. Morey left Dr. Prescott's operating room she was so ill and weak from the shock that she could hardly stand, and now you tell me she changed her dress and went out immediately after she returned home."
"Well, of course--" Hatch said, apologetically.
"In that event," resumed the scientist, "we must assume also that the matter is one of the utmost importance to her, and yet the nature of the case had led me to believe that it might be months, perhaps, before there would be any particular development in it."
"What? How?" asked the reporter.
"The final development doesn't seem, from what I know, to belong on this side of the ocean at all," explained The Thinking Machine. "I imagine it is a case for Scotland Yard. The problem of course is: What made it necessary for her to get rid of that finger? If we admit her sanity we can count the possible answers to this question on one hand, and at least three of these answers take the case back to England." He paused. "By the way, was Mrs. Morey's hand bound up in the same way when you saw her the second time?"
"Her left hand was in a muff," explained the reporter. "I couldn't see but it seems to me that she wouldn't have had time to change the manner of its dressing."
"It's extraordinary," commented the scientist. He arose and paced back and forth across the room. "Extraordinary," he repeated. "One can't help but admire the fortitude of women under certain circumstances, Mr. Hatch. I think perhaps this particular case had better be called to the attention of Scotland Yard, but first I think it would be best for you to call on the Moreys tomorrow-you can find some pretext-and see what you can learn about them. You are an ingenious young man-I'll leave it all to you."
Hatch did call at the Morey apartments on the morrow but under circumstances which were not at all what he expected. He went there with Detective Mallory, and Detective Mallory went there in a cab at full speed because the manager of the apartment house had 'phoned that Mrs. Frederick Chevedon Morey had been found murdered in her apartments. The detective ran up two flights of stairs and blundered, heavy-footed into the rooms, and there he paused in the presence of death.
The body of the woman lay on the floor and some one had mercifully covered it with a cloth from the bed. Detective Mallory drew the covering down from over the face and Hatch stared with a feeling of awe at the beautiful countenance which had, on the day before, been so radiant with life. Now it was distorted into an expression of awful agony and the limbs were drawn up convulsively. The mark of the murderer was at the white, exquisitely rounded throat-great black bruises where powerful, merciless fingers had sunk deeply into the soft flesh.
A physician in the house had preceded the police. After one glance at the woman and a swift, comprehensive look about the room Detective Mallory turned to him inquiringly.
"She has been dead for several hours," the doctor volunteered, "possibly since early last night. It appears that some virulent, burning poison was administered and then she was choked. I gather this from an examination of her mouth."
These things were readily to be seen; also it was plainly evident for many reasons that the finger marks at the throat were those of a man, but each step beyond these obvious facts only served to further bewilder the investigators. First was the statement of the night elevator boy.
"Mr. and Mrs. Morey left here last night about eleven o'clock," he said. "I know because I telephoned for a cab, and later brought them down from the third floor. They went into the manager's office leaving two suit cases in the hall. When they came out I took the suit cases to a cab that was waiting. They got in it and drove away."
"When did they return?" inquired the detective.
"They didn't return, sir," responded the boy. "I was on duty until six o'clock this morning. It just happened that no one came in after they went out until I was off duty at six."
The detective turned to the physician again.
"Then she couldn't have been dead since early last night," he said.
"She has been dead for several hours-at least twelve, possibly longer," said the physician firmly. "There's no possible argument about that."
The detective stared at him scornfully for an instant, then looked at the manager of the house.
"What was said when Mr. and Mrs. Morey entered your office last night?" he asked. "Were you there?"
"I was there, yes," was the reply. "Mr. Morey explained that they had been called away for a few days unexpectedly, and left the keys of the apartment with me. That was all that was said; I saw the elevator boy take the suit cases out for them as they went to the cab."
"How did it come, then, if you knew they were away that some one entered here this morning, and so found the body?"
"I discovered the body myself," replied the manager. "There was some electric wiring to be done in here and I thought their absence would be a good time for it. I came up to see about it and saw-that."
He glanced at the covered body with a little shiver and a grimace. Detective Mallory was deeply thoughtful for several minutes.
"The woman is here and she's dead," he said finally. "If she is here she came back here, dead or alive last night between the time she went out with her husband and the time her body was found this morning. Now that's an absolute fact. But how did she come here?"
Of the three employees of the apartment house only the elevator boy on duty had not spoken. Now he spoke because the detective glared at him fiercely.
"I didn't see either Mr. or Mrs. Morey come in this morning," he explained hastily. "Nobody had come in at all except the postman and some delivery wagon drivers up to the time the body was found."
Again Detective Mallory turned on the manager.
"Does any window of this apartment open on a fire escape?" he demanded.
"Yes-this way."
They passed through the short hallway to the back. Both the windows were locked on the inside, so instantly it appeared that even if the woman had been brought into the room that way the windows would not have been fastened unless her murderer went out of the house the front way. When Detective Mallory reached this stage of the investigation he sat down and stared from one to the other of the silent little party as if he considered the entire matter some affair which they had perpetrated to annoy him.
Hutchinson Hatch started to say something, then thought better of it, and turning, went to the telephone below. Within a few minutes The Thinking Machine stepped out of a cab in front and paused in the lower hall long enough to listen to the facts developed. There was a perfect net-work of wrinkles in the dome-like brow when the reporter concluded.
"It's merely a transfer of the final development in the affair from England to this country," he said enigmatically. "Please 'phone for Dr. Prescott to come here immediately."
He went on to the Morey apartments. With only a curt nod for Detective Mallory, the only one of the small party who knew him, he proceeded to the body of the dead woman and squinted down without a trace of emotion into the white, pallid face. After a moment he dropped on his knees beside the inert body and examined the mouth and the finger marks about the white throat.
"Carbolic acid and strangulation," he remarked tersely to Detective Mallory who was leaning over watching him with something of hopeful eagerness in his stolid face. The Thinking Machine glanced past him to the manager of the house. "Mr. Morey is a powerful, athletic man in appearance?" he asked.
"Oh no," was the reply. "He's short and slight, only a little larger than you are."
The scientist squinted aggressively at the manager as if the description were not quite what he expected. Then the slightly puzzled expression passed.
"Oh, I see," he remarked. "Played the piano." This was not a question; it was a statement.
"Yes, a great deal," was the reply, "so much so in fact that twice we had complaints from other persons in the house despite the fact that they had been here only a few days."
"Of course," mused the scientist abstractedly. "Of course. Perhaps Mrs. Morey did not play at all?"
"I believe she told me she did not."
The Thinking Machine drew down the thin cloth which had been thrown over the body and glanced at the left hand.
"Dear me! Dear me!" he exclaimed suddenly, and he arose. "Dear me!" he repeated. "That's the--" He turned to the manager and the two elevator boys. "This is Mrs. Morey beyond any question?"