"What is all this?" asked Hatch, bewildered.
"That man is Morgan Mason," said The Thinking Machine.
"The man who eloped with Miss Dow?" asked Hatch, breathlessly.
"Now, where is Miss Dow?" asked The Thinking Machine, in turn.
"You mean--"
The Thinking Machine waved his hand off into the vague night; it was a gesture which Hatch understood perfectly.
V.
Hutchinson Hatch was deeply thoughtful on the swift run back to the village. There he and The Thinking Machine took train to Boston. Hatch was turning over possibilities. Had Miss Dow eloped with some one besides Mason? There had been no other name mentioned. Was it possible that she killed Miss Melrose? Vaguely his mind clutched for a motive for this, yet none appeared, and he dismissed the idea with a laugh at its absurdity. Then, What? Where? How? Why?
"I suppose the story of an actress having been murdered in an automobile under mysterious circumstances would have been telegraphed all over the country, Mr. Hatch?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"Yes," said Hatch. "If you mean this story, there's not a city in the country that doesn't know of it by this time."
"It's perfectly wonderful, the resources of the press," the scientist mused.
Hatch nodded his acquiescence. He had hoped for a moment that The Thinking Machine had asked the question as a preliminary to something else, but that was apparently all. After awhile the train jerked a little and The Thinking Machine spoke again.
"I think, Mr. Hatch I wouldn't yet print anything about the disappearance of Miss Dow," he said. "It might be unwise at present. No one else will find it out, so--"
"I understand," said Hatch. It was a command.
"By the way," the other went on, "do you happen to remember the name of that Winter Street store that Curtis went in?"
"Yes," and he named it.
It was nearly midnight when The Thinking Machine and Hatch reached Boston. The reporter was dismissed with a curt:
"Come up at noon to-morrow."
Hatch went his way. Next day at noon promptly he was waiting in the reception room of The Thinking Machine's home. The scientist was out-down in Winter Street, Martha explained-and Hatch waited impatiently for his return. He came in finally.
"Well?" inquired the reporter.
"Impossible to say anything until day after to-morrow," said The Thinking Machine.
"And then?" asked Hatch.
"The solution," replied the scientist positively. "Now I'm waiting for some one."
"Miss Dow?"
"Meanwhile you might see Reid and find out in some way if he ever happened to make a gift of any little thing, a thing that a woman would wear on the outside of her coat, for instance, to Miss Dow."
"Lord, I don't think he'll say anything."
"Find out, too, when he intends to go back West."
It took Hatch three hours, and required a vast deal of patience and skill, to find out that on a recent birthday Miss Dow had received a present of a monogram belt buckle from Reid. That was all; and that was not what The Thinking Machine meant. Hatch had the word of Miss Dow's maid for it that while Miss Dow wore this belt at the time of her elopement, it was underneath the automobile coat.
"Have you heard anything more from Miss Dow?" asked Hatch.
"Yes," responded the maid. "Her father received a letter from her this morning. It was from Chicago, and said that she and her husband were on their way to San Francisco and that the family might not hear from them again until after the honeymoon."
"How? What?" gasped Hatch. His brain was in a muddle. "She in Chicago, with-her husband?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is there any question about the letter being in her handwriting?"
"Not at all," replied the maid, positively. "It's perfectly natural," she concluded.
"But--" Hatch began, then he stopped.
For one fleeting instant he was tempted to tell the maid that the man whom the family had supposed was Miss Dow's husband was lying unconscious at a farmhouse not a great way from the Monarch Inn, and that there was no trace of Miss Dow. Now this letter! His head whirled when he thought of it.
"Is there any question but that Miss Dow did elope with Mr. Mason and not some other man?" he asked.
"It was Mr. Mason all right," the girl responded. "I knew there was to be an elopement and helped arrange for Miss Dow to go," she added, confidently. "It was Mr. Mason, I know."
Then Hatch rushed away and telephoned to The Thinking Machine. He simply couldn't hold this latest development until he saw him again.
"We've made a mistake," he bellowed through the 'phone.
"What's that?" demanded The Thinking Machine, aggressively.
"Miss Dow is in Chicago with her husband-family has received a letter from her-that man out there with the smashed head can't be Mason." The reporter explained hurriedly.
"Dear me, dear me!" said The Thinking Machine over the wire. And again: "Dear me!"
"Her maid told me all about it," Hatch rushed on, "that is, all about her aiding Miss Dow to elope, and all that. Must be some mistake."
"Dear me!" again came in the voice of The Thinking Machine. Then: "Is Miss Dow a blonde or brunette?"
The irrelevancy of the question caused Hatch to smile in spite of himself.
"A brunette," he answered. "A pronounced brunette."
"Then," said The Thinking Machine, as if this were merely dependent upon or a part of the blonde or brunette proposition, "get immediately a picture of Mason somewhere-I suppose you can-go out and see that man with the smashed head and see if it is Mason. Let me know by 'phone."
"All right," said Hatch, rather hopelessly. "But it is impossible--"