"His name is Harold Fairbanks," the reporter explained. "He was removed to an asylum yesterday, hopelessly insane."
PART II.
The House That Was by Jacques Futrelle
Editor's Note.-Mrs. Futrelle undertook to set up a problem which The Thinking Machine could not solve. "Wraiths of the Storm," in The Sunday Magazine last week, presented what she thought to be a mystery story impossible of solution. Printer's proofs of the story were submitted to Mr. Futrelle, who, after frequent consultations with Professor Van Dusen,-The Thinking Machine,-evolved "The House that Was" as the perfect solution.
The Thinking Machine lowered his squint eyes and favored Hutchinson Hatch with a long, steady stare which for the moment seemed totally to obliterate him as a personality. Gradually, under the continued unseeing but tense gaze, there grew upon the newspaper man a singular sense of utter transparency, a complete invisibility, an uncomfortable feeling of not being present. He laughed a little finally, and lighted a cigarette.
"As I was saying," Hatch began, "this Harold Fairbanks is hopelessly insane, and--"
"I imagine," interrupted the eminent man of science,-"I imagine that this insanity of Fairbanks's is rather a maniacal condition?"
"Yes," Hatch told him. "I was going to say--"
"And that possibly it took a homicidal turn?" The Thinking Machine continued.
"Yes," the reporter assented. "He tried to--"
"Against a woman, perhaps?"
"Precisely. The direct cause of his--"
"Please don't interrupt, Mr. Hatch!" snapped The Thinking Machine. He was silent for a time; Hatch smiled whimsically. "The object of his homicidal mania," the scientist continued slowly, as if feeling his way, "was-was his mother?"
"Yes."
Hatch dropped back into his chair and met the squint blue eyes fairly. He was not surprised at this statement of the case, thus far correct, because he was accustomed to the unerring accuracy of the master mind behind those eyes; but he was curious to know just how far that logical brain would follow a circumstantial thread which it had developed of itself out of an apparent nothingness. Nothing in the manuscript, nothing he had said, had even indicated, to his mind, the more recent developments.
The leaves of the manuscript fluttered through the slender white fingers of The Thinking Machine, and the straight line of the thin lips was drawn down a little as he glanced over a page or so.
"He shot at her?" he queried at last.
"Three times," the reporter informed him. The Thinking Machine raised his eyes quickly, inquiringly, to those of the newspaper man. "She was not wounded," the reporter hastened to say. "The shots went wild."
"That happened in Fairbanks's own room?"
"Yes."
"At night?"
"Yes; about one o'clock."
"Of course!" exclaimed the little scientist crabbedly. "I know that." Again there was a pause. "Mrs. Fairbanks has a room near that of her son-perhaps on the same floor?"
"Just across the hall."
"And she was awakened by some unusual noise in his room?"
"She hadn't been to sleep." The reporter smiled.
"Oh!" and again The Thinking Machine's squint eyes were turned toward the ceiling. "Some unusual noise attracted her attention, then?"
"Yes," the reporter agreed.
"Screams?"
"Yes."
The Thinking Machine nodded. "So she ran to her son's room just as she was-in a white night robe, I imagine?"
"Precisely."
The reporter was leaning forward in his chair now, staring into the impassive face before him. Still he wasn't surprised-he was merely curious and interested in the workings of that mind which laid before him in order these incidents which were not known to it by any tangible method.
"And as she entered her son's room," the scientist resumed, "he shot at her?"
"Three times-yes."
The Thinking Machine was silent for a long time. "That's all?" he remarked inquiringly at last.
"Well, Fairbanks was raving, of course," and Hatch dropped back in his chair. "He was over-powered by two servants, and--"
"Yes, I know," broke in The Thinking Machine. "He is now in a padded cell in a private asylum somewhere." This was not a question; it was a statement. "And this manuscript was found in his room after he had gone?"
"It lay open on his table. That is his handwriting," explained the newspaper reporter.
The Thinking Machine arose and walked the length of the room three times. Finally he stopped before the newspaper man. "And is there really such a thing as this grinning god that he describes?" he demanded.
"Certainly," Hatch responded, and his tone indicated surprise.
"Not necessarily certain," said the scientist sharply. "Do you know there is a grinning god?"
"Yes," replied the newspaper man emphatically. "It was taken away from Fairbanks when he was locked up. He fought like a fiend for it."
"Naturally," was the terse comment. "You have seen it, have you?"
"Yes, I saw it. It's about six inches tall, seems to be cut from a solid piece of ivory, and--"
"And has shiny eyes?" interrupted the other.
"Yes. The eyes seem to be of amethyst, highly polished."
Again The Thinking Machine walked the length of the room three times. "Do you know anything about self hypnotism, Mr. Hatch?" he inquired at last.