"I knew it! I knew it!" she sobbed. "Is there anything to connect Mr. Willis directly with the-the murder?"
The reporter started to say something, then paused. He wasn't quite sure of himself. He had uncovered something, he didn't know what yet.
"It would be better, Miss Stanford," he explained, gently, "if you would tell me all you know about this affair. The things which are now in my possession are fragmentary-if you could give me any new detail it would be only serving the ends of justice."
For a little while the girl was silent, then she arose and faced him.
"Is Mr. Willis yet under arrest?" she asked, calmly now.
"Not yet," said the reporter.
"Then I will say nothing else," she declared, and her lips closed in a straight line.
"What was the motive for murder?" Hatch, insisted.
"I will say nothing else," she replied, firmly.
"And what makes you positive there was murder?"
"Good-night. You need not come again, for I will not see you."
Miss Stanford turned and left the room. Hatch, sadly puzzled, bewildered, stood staring after her a moment, then went out, his brain alive with possibilities, with intangible ends which would not be connected. He was eager to lay the new facts before The Thinking Machine.
From Dorchester the reporter took a car for his home. In his room, with the tangible threads of the mystery spread out on a table, he thought and surmised far into the night, and when he finally replaced them all in his pocket and turned down the light it was with a hopeless shake of his head.
On the following morning when Hatch arose he picked up a paper and went to breakfast. He spread the paper before him and there-the first thing he saw-was a huge headline, stating that a burglar had entered the room of Constans St. George and had tried to kill Mr. St. George. A shot had been fired at him and had passed through his left arm.
Mr. St. George had been asleep when the door of his apartments was burst in by the thief. The artist arose at the noise, and as he stepped into the reception-room had been shot. The wound was trivial. The burglar escaped; there was no clew.
IV.
It was a long story of seemingly hopeless complications that Hatch told The Thinking Machine that morning. Nothing connected with anything, and yet here was a series of happenings, all apparently growing out of the disappearance of Miss Field, and which must have some relation one to the other. At the conclusion of the story, Hatch passed over the newspaper containing the account of the burglary in the studio. The artist had been removed to a hospital.
The Thinking Machine read the newspaper account and turned to the reporter with a question:
"Did you see Willis's handwriting?"
"Not yet," replied the reporter.
"See it at once," instructed the other. "If possible, bring me a sample of it. Did you see St. George's handwriting?"
"No," the reporter confessed.
"See that and bring me a sample if you can. Find out first if Willis has a revolver now or has ever had. If so, see it and see if it is loaded or empty-its exact condition. Find out also if St. George has a revolver-and if he has one, get possession of it if it is in your power."
The scientist twisted the two gloves and the veil which Hatch had given to him in his fingers idly, then passed them to the reporter again.
Hatch arose and stood waiting, hat in hand.
"Also find out," The Thinking Machine went on, "the exact condition of St. George-his mental condition particularly. Find out if Willis is at his office in the bank to-day, and, if possible, where and how he spent last night. That's all."
"And Miss Stanford?" asked Hatch.
"Never mind her," replied The Thinking Machine. "I may see her myself. These other things are of immediate consequence. The minute you satisfy yourself come back to me. Quickness on your part may prevent a tragedy."
The reporter went away hurriedly. At four o'clock that afternoon he returned. The Thinking Machine greeted him; he held a piece of letter-paper in his hand.
"Well?" he asked.
"The handwriting is Willis's," said Hatch, without hesitation. "I saw a sample-it is identical, and the paper on which he writes is identical."
The scientist grunted.
"I also saw some of St. George's writing," the reporter went on, as if he were reciting a lesson. "It is wholly dissimilar."
The Thinking Machine nodded.
"Willis has no revolver that anyone ever heard of," Hatch continued. "He was at dinner with several of his fellow employees last night, and left the restaurant at eight o'clock."
"Been drinking?"
"Might have had a few drinks," responded the reporter. "He is not a drinking man."
"Has St. George a revolver?"
"I was unable to find that out or do anything except get a sample of his writing from another artist," the reporter explained. "He is in a hospital, raving crazy. It seems to be a return of the trouble he had once before, except it is worse. The wound itself is not bad."
The scientist was studying the sheet of paper.
"Have you that scrap?" he asked.
Hatch produced it, and the scientist placed it on the sheet; Hatch could only conjecture that he was fitting it to something else already there. He was engaged in this work when Martha entered.
"The young lady who was here earlier to-day wants to see you again," she announced.
"Show her in," directed The Thinking Machine, without raising his eyes.
Martha disappeared, and after a moment Miss Stanford entered. Hatch, himself unnoticed, stared at her curiously, and arose, as did the scientist. The girl's face was flushed a little, and there was an eager expression in her eyes.
"I know he didn't do it," she began. "I've just gotten a letter from Springfield stating that he was there on the day Grace went away-and--"
"Know who didn't do what?" asked the scientist.
"That Mr. Willis didn't kill Grace," replied the girl, her enthusiasm suddenly checked. "See here."
The scientist read a letter which she offered, and the girl sank into a chair. Then for the first time she saw Hatch and her eyes expressed her surprise. She stared at him a moment, then nodded a greeting, after which she fell to watching The Thinking Machine.