"Miss Stanford," he said, at length, "you made several mistakes when you were here before in not telling me the truth-all of it. If you will tell me all you know of this case I may be able to see it more clearly."
The girl reddened and stammered a little, then her lips trembled.
"Do you know-not conjecture, but know-whether or not Miss Field, or Grace, as you call her, was engaged to Willis?" the irritated voice asked.
"I-I know it, yes," she stammered.
"And you were in love with Mr. Willis-you are in love with him?"
Again the tell-tale blush swept over her face. She glanced at Hatch; it was the nervousness of a girl who is driven to a confession of love.
"I regard Mr. Willis very highly," she said, finally, her voice low.
"Well," and the scientist arose and crossed to where the girl sat, "don't you see that a very grave charge might be brought home to you if you don't tell all of this? The girl has disappeared. There might be even a hint of murder in which your name would be mentioned. Don't you see?"
There was a long pause, and the girl stared steadily into the squint eyes above her. Finally her eyes fell.
"I think I understand. Just what is it you want me to answer?"
"Did or did you not ever hear Mr. Willis threaten Miss Field?"
"I did once, yes."
"Did or did you not know that Miss Field was the original of the painting?"
"I did not."
"It is a semi-nude picture, isn't it?"
Again there was a flush in the girl's face.
"I have heard it was," she said. "I have never seen it. I suggested to Grace several times that we go to see it, but she never would. I understand why now."
"Did Willis know she was the original of that painting? That is, knowing it yourself now, do you have any reason to suppose that he previously knew?"
"I don't know," she said, frankly. "I know that there was something which was always causing friction between them-something they quarreled about. It might have been that. That was when I heard Mr. Willis threaten her-it was something about shooting her if she ever did something-I don't know what."
"Miss Field knew him before you did, I think you said?"
"She introduced me to him."
The Thinking Machine fingered the sheet of paper he held.
"Did you know what those scraps of paper you brought me contained?"
"Yes, in a way," said the girl.
"Why did you bring them, then?"
"Because you told me you knew I had them, and I was afraid it might make more trouble for me and for Mr. Willis if I did not."
The Thinking Machine passed the sheet to Hatch.
"This will interest you, Mr. Hatch," he explained. "Those words and letters in parentheses are what I have supplied to complete the full text of the note, of which you had a mere scrap. You will notice how the scrap you had fitted into it."
The reporter read this:
"If you go to th(at stud)io Wednesday to see that artist, (I will k)ill you bec(ause I w)on't have it known to the world that(t you a)re a model. I hope you will heed this warning. "V. W."
The reporter stared at the patched-up letter, pasted together with infinite care, and then glanced at The Thinking Machine, who settled himself again comfortably in the chair.
"And now, Miss Stanford," asked the scientist, in a most matter-of-fact tone, "where is the body of Miss Field?"
V.
The blunt question aroused the girl, and she arose suddenly, staring at The Thinking Machine. He did not move. She stood as if transfixed, and Hatch saw her bosom rise and fall rapidly with the emotion she was seeking to repress.
"Well?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"I don't know," flamed Miss Stanford, suddenly, almost fiercely. "I don't even know she is dead. I know that Mr. Willis did not kill her, because, as that letter I gave you shows, he was in Springfield. I won't be tricked into saying anything further."
The outburst had no appreciable effect on The Thinking Machine beyond causing him to raise his eyebrows slightly as he looked at the defiant little figure.
"When did you last see Mr. Willis have a revolver?"
"I know nothing of any revolver. I know only that Victor Willis is innocent as you are, and that I love him. Whatever has become of Grace Field I don't know."
Tears leaped suddenly to her eyes, and, turning, she left the room. After a moment they heard the outer door slam as she passed out. Hatch turned to the scientist with a question in his eyes.
"Did you smell anything like chloroform or ether when you were in St. George's apartments?" asked The Thinking Machine as he arose.
"No," said Hatch. "I only noticed that the place seemed close, and there was an odor of Chinese incense-joss sticks-which was almost stifling."
The Thinking Machine looked at the reporter quickly, but said nothing. Instead, he passed out of the room, to return a few minutes later with his hat and coat on.
"Where are we going?" asked Hatch.
"To St. George's studio," was the answer.
Just then the telephone bell in the next room rang. The scientist answered it in person.
"Your City Editor," he called to Hatch.
Hatch went to the 'phone and remained there several minutes. When he came back there was a new excitement in his face.
"What is it?" asked the scientist.