"Were there any other admirers you know of?" Hatch asked.
"No," said the girl, stoutly. "There may have been others who admired her, but none she cared for. She has told me too much-I-I know," she faltered.
"How long have you known Mr. Willis?" asked Hatch.
The girl's face flamed scarlet instantly.
"Only since I've known Grace," she replied. "She introduced us."
"Has Mr. Willis ever shown you any attention?"
"Certainly not," Miss Stanford flashed, angrily. "All his attention was for Grace."
There was the least trace of bitterness in the tone, and Hatch imagined he read it aright. Willis was a man whom both perhaps loved; it might be in that event that Miss Stanford knew more than she had said of the whereabouts of Grace Field. The next step was to see Willis.
"I suppose you'll do everything possible to find Miss Field?" he asked.
"Certainly," said the girl.
"Have you her photograph?"
"I have one, yes, but I don't think-I don't believe Grace--"
"Would like to have it published?" asked Hatch. "Possibly not, under ordinary circumstances-but now that she is missing it is the surest way of getting a trace of her. Will you give it to me?"
Miss Stanford was silent for a time. Then apparently she made up her mind, for she arose.
"It might be well, too," Hatch suggested, "to see if you can find the letter you mentioned."
The girl nodded and went out. When she returned she had a photograph in her hand; a glimpse of it told Hatch it was a bust picture of a woman in evening dress. The girl was studying a scrap of paper.
"What is it?" asked Hatch, quickly.
"I don't know," she responded. "I was searching for the letter when I remembered she frequently tore them up and dropped them into the waste-basket. It had been emptied every day, but I looked and found this clinging to the bottom, caught between the cane."
"May I see it?" asked the reporter.
The girl handed it to him. It was evidently a piece of a letter torn from the outer edge just where the paper was folded to put it into the envelope. On it were these words and detached letters, written in a bold hand:
sday ill you to the ho
Hatch's eyes opened wide.
"Do you know the handwriting?" he asked.
The girl faltered an instant.
"No," she answered, finally.
Hatch studied her face a moment with cold eyes, then turned the scrap of paper over. The other side was blank. Staring down at it he veiled a glitter of anxious interest.
"And the picture?" he asked, quietly.
The girl handed him the photograph. Hatch took it and as he looked it was with difficulty he restrained an exclamation of astonishment-triumphant astonishment. Finally, with his brain teeming with possibilities, he left the house, taking the photograph and the scrap of paper. Ten minutes later he was talking to his City Editor over the 'phone.
"It's a great story," he explained, briefly. "The missing girl is the mysterious model of St. George's picture, 'Fulfillment.' "
"Great," came the voice of the City Editor.
II.
Having laid his story before his City Editor, Hatch sat down to consider the fragmentary writing. Obviously "sday" represented a day of the week-either Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, these being the only days where the letter "s" preceded the "day." This seemed to be a definite fact, but still it meant nothing. True, Miss Field had last been seen on Wednesday, but then?-nothing.
To the next part of the fragment Hatch attached the greatest importance. It was the possibility of a threat, -"ill you." Did it mean "kill you" or "will you" or "till you" or-or what? There might be dozens of other words ending in "ill" which he did not recall at the moment. His imagination hammered the phrase into his brain as "kill you." The "to the"-the next words-were clear, but meant nothing at all. The last letters were distinctly "ho," possibly "hope."
Then Hatch began real work on the story. First he saw the bank clerk, Victor Willis, who Miss Stanford had said loved Grace Field, and whom Hatch suspected Miss Stanford loved. He found Willis a grim, sullen-faced young man of twenty-eight years, who would say nothing.
From that point Hatch worked vigorously for several hours. At the end of that time he had found out that on Wednesday, the day of Miss Field's disappearance, a veiled woman-probably Grace Field-had called at the bank and inquired for Willis. Later, Willis, urging necessity, had asked to be allowed the day off and left the bank. He did not appear again until next morning. His actions did not impress any of his associates with the idea that he was a bridegroom; in fact, Hatch himself had given up the idea that Miss Field had eloped. There seemed no reason for an elopement.
When Hatch called at the studio, and home, of Constans St. George, to inform him of the disappearance of the model whose identity had been so long guarded, he was told that Mr. St. George was not in; that is, St. George refused to answer knocks at the door, and had not been seen for a day or so. He frequently disappeared this way, his informant said.
With these facts-and lack of facts-in his possession on Friday evening, Hatch called on Professor S. F. X. Van Dusen. The Thinking Machine received him as cordially as he ever received anybody.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
"I don't believe this is really worth your while Professor," Hatch said, finally. "It's just a case of a girl who disappeared. There are some things about it which are puzzling, but I'm afraid it's only an elopement."
The Thinking Machine dragged up a footstool, planted his small feet on it comfortably and leaned back in his chair.
"Go on," he directed.
Then Hatch told the story, beginning at the time when the picture was placed in the art museum, and continuing up to the point where he had seen Willis after finding the photograph and the scrap of paper. He had always found that it saved time to begin at the beginning with The Thinking Machine; he did it now as a matter of course.
"And the scrap of paper?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"I have it here," replied the reporter.
For several minutes the scientist examined the fragment and then handed it back to the reporter.
"If one could establish some clear connection between that and the disappearance of the girl it might be valuable," he said. "As it is now, it means nothing. Any number of letters might be thrown into the waste-basket in the room the two girls occupied, therefore dismiss this for the moment."
"But isn't it possible--" Hatch began.
"Anything is possible. Mr. Hatch," retorted the other, belligerently. "You might take occasion to see the handwriting of St. George, the artist, and see if that is his-also look at Willis's. Even if it were Willis's, however, it may mean nothing in connection with this."