"Only that there is such a thing," replied the reporter, wondering at the abrupt change in the trend of the conversation. "Why?"
The Thinking Machine didn't say why. "You came to me, of course, to see if it was possible, by throwing light on this affair, to restore Fairbanks's mind?" he inquired instead.
"Well, that was the idea," Hatch agreed. "Fairbanks was evidently driven to his present condition by the haunting mystery of this thing, by brooding over it, and by the tangible existence in his hands of that ivory god which established a definite connection with an experience which might otherwise have been only a nightmare, and it occurred to me that if he could be made to see just what had happened and the underlying causes for its happening, he might be brought back to a normal condition." The reporter was silent for a moment, with eyes set on the drawn, inscrutable face of The Thinking Machine. "Of course," he added, "I am presuming that if it was not a diseased mental condition the things as he set them down did happen, and if they did happen I know you won't believe that they were due to other than natural causes."
"I don't disbelieve in anything, Mr. Hatch," and The Thinking Machine regarded the newspaper man quietly. "I don't even disbelieve in what is broadly termed the supernatural-I merely don't know. It is necessary, in the solution of material problems, to work from a material basis, and then the things which are conjured up by fear and-and failure to understand may be dissipated. That is done by logic, Mr. Hatch. Disregard the supernatural, so called, in our material problems, and logic is as inevitable as that two and two make four, not sometimes, but all the time."
"You don't deny the possibility of the so called supernatural, then?" Hatch asked, and again there was a note of surprise in his voice.
"I don't deny anything until I know," was the response. "I don't know that there is a supernatural force; therefore," and he shrugged his slender, stooping shoulders, "I work only from a material basis. If this manuscript states facts, then Fairbanks saw an old man, not a spook; he saw a woman, not a wraith; he jumped to escape a real fire, not a ghost fire. When we disregard the supernatural, we must admit that everything was real, unless it was pure invention, and the broken ankle and burned clothing are against that. If these were real people, we can find them-that's all there is to that. Yet there is a chance that the whole tale is a fiction, or the product of a disordered brain. But even that being true, it interferes in no way with the inevitable logic of the affair. When we know that this manuscript is in existence, and when we know that the man who produced it has since become a raving maniac, the sheer logic of the thing reveals clearly the intermediate steps."
"How, for instance?" Hatch inquired curiously.
"Well, we have this," and The Thinking Machine rattled the sheets of the manuscript impatiently; "and while we'll admit it was written by a sane man, we know that that man has since become a maniac. I stated the incidents which led to his incarceration as logic unfolded them to me. First I knew that insanity from fear and failure to understand nearly always takes the maniacal turn; therefore I saw that instead of being insane, as you stated first, Fairbanks was probably a maniac. There is a difference."
The reporter nodded.
"Next, one of the first manifestations of a maniacal condition is a homicidal tendency. Did Fairbanks attempt homicide? Yes.
"Now the problem grew a little more complex, rather intricately psychological, if I may say it that way," The Thinking Machine explained precisely. "However, it goes back generally to the broad grounds that a woman in a flowing white night robe typifies the popular conception of the ghostly, and when we know that this supposed wraith, or one of them, was a woman in white, we see that in Fairbanks's condition at the moment the appearance of such a figure would have instantly aroused him to the frenzy which led to the subsequent events."
"I understand, so far," Hatch remarked.
"Now the only woman-the most likely woman, I should say-to go to his room in a white night robe was his mother." He paused for a moment. "Therefore, his mother was in all probability the object of his attack. Remember, he was mad with fear, and, appearing suddenly as she did, perhaps in a dim light, she was to his disordered brain the incarnation of that thing he most feared."
Hatch seemed to be perfectly fascinated. His cigarette burned up until the fire touched his fingers; and he barely noticed it.
"In this manuscript," The Thinking Machine resumed after a moment, "Fairbanks tells me that he had a revolver, and shows a distinct weakness for the weapon. Therefore, wouldn't he shoot at this incarnation of the thing which was responsible for his condition. He did shoot. The fact that the incidents happened in Fairbanks's own room at night was an assumption based upon the fact that his mother figured in it, and the further fact that she was dressed for bed when she appeared in his room. Of course, if her room was near, her attention would be attracted by some unusual noise. If these noises were due to a maniac, they were in all probability screams."
"Well, by George!" Hatch remarked fervently. "It's--"
"Now the first thing to do is to see Fairbanks in person," interrupted The Thinking Machine, with a sudden change to a most business like tone. "I think, if he can comprehend at all, that I may be able to do something for him."
The Thinking Machine-Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, scientist-was cordially, even deferentially, received by Dr. Pollock, physician in charge of the Westbrook Sanatorium.
"I should like to spend ten minutes in the padded cell with Fairbanks," he announced tersely.
Dr. Pollock regarded him curiously, but without surprise. "It's dangerous," he remarked doubtfully. "I have no objection, of course; but I should advise that a couple of keepers go in with you."
"I'll go alone," announced the diminutive man of science. "It may be that I can quiet him." Dr. Pollock merely stared. "By the way," The Thinking Machine added, "you have that little ivory god here, haven't you? Well, let me see it, please."
It was produced and subjected to a searching scrutiny, after which the scientist set it up on a table, dropped into a seat facing it, leaned forward on his elbows, and sat staring straight into the amethyst eyes for a long time. A curious silence fell upon the watchers as he sat there immovable, minute after minute, staring, staring. Hatch absently glanced at his watch and went over and looked out the window. The thing was getting on his nerves.
At last the scientist arose and thrust the grinning god into his pocket. "Now, please," he directed curtly, "I shall go into the cell with Fairbanks alone. I want the door closed behind me, and I want that door to remain closed for ten minutes. Under no circumstances must there be any interruption." He turned upon Dr. Pollock. "Don't have any fears for me. I'm not a fool."
Dr. Pollock led the way along the corridor, down some stairs, and paused before a door.
"Just ten minutes-no more, no less," directed the scientist.
The key was inserted in the lock, and the door swung on its hinges. Instantly the ears of the three men outside were assailed by a torrent of screams, of blasphemy, hideous imprecations. The maniac rushed for the door, and Hatch for an instant gazed straight into a distorted, pallid face in which there was no trace of intelligence, or even of humanity. He turned away with a shudder. Dr. Pollock thrust his arm forward to stay the swaying figure, and glanced round at The Thinking Machine doubtfully.
"Look at me! Look at me!" commanded the scientist sharply, and the squint blue eyes fearlessly met the glitter of madness in the eyes of Fairbanks. He raised his right hand suddenly in front of his face, and instantly the incoherent ravings stopped, while some strange, sudden change came over the maniacal face. In the scientist's right hand was the grinning god. That was the magic which had stilled the ravings. Slowly, slowly, with his eyes fixed upon those of the maniac, the scientist edged his way into the cell, Fairbanks retreating almost imperceptibly. Never for an instant did the maniacal eyes leave the ivory image; yet he made no attempt to seize it, he seemed merely fascinated.
"Close the door," directed The Thinking Machine quietly, without so much as a glance back. "Ten minutes!"
Dr. Pollock closed the door and turned the key in the lock, after which he looked at the newspaper man with an expression of frank bewilderment on his face. Hatch said nothing, only glanced at his watch and went over to the window, where he stood staring out moodily, with every nerve strained to catch any sound which might by chance penetrate the heavy, padded walls.
One minute, two minutes, three minutes! The second hand of Hatch's watch moved at a snail's pace! Four minutes, five minutes, six minutes! Then through the well nigh impenetrable wall came faintly the sound of hoarse cries, of screams, and finally the crash of something falling. Dr. Pollock's face paled a little and he turned the key in the lock.
"No!" and Hatch sprang forward to seize the physician's hand.
"But he's in danger," declared the doctor emphatically; "maybe even killed!" Again he tugged at the door.
"No!" said Hatch again, and he shoved the physician aside. "He said ten minutes, and-and I know the man!"
Eight minutes! Listening tensely, they knew that the screaming had stopped; there was dead silence. Nine minutes! Still they stood there, Hatch guarding the door, and his eyes unflinchingly fixed on the physician's face. Ten minutes! And Hatch opened the door.
Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen-The Thinking Machine-was sitting calmly on a padded seat beside Harold Fairbanks, with one slender hand resting on his pulse. Fairbanks himself sat with his ivory image held close up to his eyes, babbling and mumbling at it incoherently. An over-turned table lay in the middle of the cell. So great had been the power used to upset it that an iron bolt which held it fast to the floor had been broken short off. The scientist arose and came toward them; and Hatch drew a deep breath of relief.
"I would advise that this man be placed in another cell," said the little scientist quietly. "There is no further need to keep him in a padded cell. Put him somewhere where he can see out and find something to attract his attention. Meanwhile let him keep that ivory image, and there'll be no more raving."
"What-what did you do to him?" demanded the physician in deep perplexity.
"Nothing-yet," was the enigmatic response. "I'd like for him to stay here a couple of days longer, under constant watch as to his physical condition,-never mind his mental condition now,-and then with your permission I'll make a little experiment which I believe will restore him to a normal condition. Meanwhile he needs the best of physical care. Let him babble,-he will, anyway,-that doesn't matter just now."
Harold Fairbanks sat beside The Thinking Machine in the second seat of a huge touring car, with the slender hand of the scientist resting lightly on his wrist. In front of them the chauffeur was busy with the multiple levers of the great machine; and behind them sat Hutchinson Hatch and Dr. Pollock. They were scudding along a smooth road, with the wind beating in their faces, guided by the ribbons of light which shot out ahead from their forward lamps. The night was perfectly black, with not a light point visible save those carried by their own car.
Behind them lay the quiet little village of Pelham, and miles away in front was the town of Millen. From time to time as the car rushed on The Thinking Machine peered inquisitively through the darkness into the face of the man beside him; but he could barely make out its general shape,-a pallid splotch in the darkness. The hand lay quietly beside his own, and a senile voice mumbled and babbled-that was all. The newspaper man and the physician in the rear seat had nothing to say; they too were peering vainly at Fairbanks.
At last through the gloom the outlines of a small building loomed dimly in front of them, just off the road to the left. The Thinking Machine leaned forward and touched the chauffeur on the arm.
"We'll stop here for gasolene," he said distinctly.
"Gasolene-stop here for gasolene!" babbled a senseless voice beside him.
The Thinking Machine felt the hand he held move spasmodically as the huge car ran off the main roadway and maneuvered back and forth to clear the fairway of its bulk. Finally it stopped, with its tonneau, end on, within a few feet of the door of the building. The scientist's fingers closed more tightly on the wrist; and after a moment the incoherent mumbling began again.
Hutchinson Hatch and Dr. Pollock arose and got out. Hatch went straight to the little building and rapped sharply. The sound caused Fairbanks to turn vacant, wavering eyes in that direction. After a moment a nightcapped head appeared at the window above. The Thinking Machine shot an electric flashlight into Fairbanks's face. The eyes, now fixed on the nightcapped head, were wide open, and a glint of childish curiosity lay in them. The babblings were silent for a moment,-somewhere in a recess of the maddened brain a germ of intelligence was struggling. Then, as the scientist regarded him steadily, the expression of the face changed again, the eyes grew vacant, the mouth flabby, the senile mumblings began again.
Hatch began and concluded negotiations for five gallons of gasolene. A shrunken shanked old man brought it out in a can, delivered it, and scuttled back into the house with his safety lantern. Dr. Pollock and Hatch took their seats again, while The Thinking Machine clambered out and went round to the back, where he spoke to the chauffeur, who was busy at the tank. The chauffeur nodded as if he understood, and followed the scientist to his seat.
"Now for Millen," directed the scientist quietly.
"Millen!" Fairbanks repeated meaninglessly.
The chauffeur twisted his wheel, backed a little, caught the forward clutch, whirled his car straight to the road again, and shot out through the darkness. For two or three minutes there was utter silence, save for the chug and whir of the engine and the clanking rattle of the car; then The Thinking Machine spoke over his shoulder to Hatch and Dr. Pollock.