"Another queer thing my City Editor told me," Hatch responded. "Constans St. George, raving mad, has escaped from the hospital and disappeared."
"Dear me, dear me!" exclaimed the scientist, quickly. It was as near surprise as he ever showed. "Then there is danger."
With quick steps he went to the telephone and called up Police Headquarters.
"Detective Mallory," Hatch heard him ask for. "Yes. This is Professor Van Dusen. Please meet me immediately here at my house. Be here in ten minutes? Good. I'll wait. It's a matter of great importance. Good-by."
Then impatiently The Thinking Machine moved about, waiting. The reporter, whose acquaintance with the logician was an extended one, had never seen him in just such a state. It started when he heard St. George had escaped.
At last they left the house and stood waiting on the steps until Detective Mallory appeared in a cab. Into that Hatch and The Thinking Machine climbed, after the latter had given some direction, and the cabby drove rapidly away. It was all a mystery to Hatch, and he was rather glad of it when Detective Mallory asked what it meant.
"Means that there is danger of a tragedy," said The Thinking Machine, crustily. "We may be in time to avert it. There is just a chance. If I'd only known this an hour ago-even half an hour ago-it might have been stopped."
The Thinking Machine was the first man out of the cab when it stopped, and Hatch and the detective followed quickly.
"Is Mr. St. George in his apartments?" asked the scientist of the elevator boy.
"No, sir," said the boy. "He's in hospital, shot."
"Is there a key to his place? Quick."
"I think so, sir, but I can't give it to you."
"Here, give it to me, then!" exclaimed the detective. He flashed a badge in the boy's eyes, and the youth immediately lost a deal of his coolness.
"Gee, a detective! Yes, sir."
"How many rooms has Mr. St. George?" asked the scientist.
"Three and a bath," the boy responded.
Two minutes later the three men stood in the reception-room of the apartments. There came to them from somewhere inside a deadly, stifling odor of chloroform. After one glance around The Thinking Machine rushed into the next room, the studio.
"Dear me, dear me!" he exclaimed.
There on the floor lay huddled the figure of a man. Blood had run from several wounds on his head. The Thinking Machine stooped a moment, and his slender fingers fumbled over the heart.
"Unconscious, that's all," he said, and he raised the man up.
"Victor Willis!" exclaimed Hatch.
"Victor Willis!" repeated The Thinking Machine, as if puzzled. "Are you sure?"
"Certain," said Hatch, positively. "It's the bank clerk."
"Then we are too late," declared the scientist.
He arose and looked about the room. A door to his right attracted his attention. He jerked it open and peered in. It was a clothes press. Another small door on the other side of the room was also thrown open. Here was as a kitchenette, with a great quantity of canned stuffs.
The Thinking Machine went on into the little bedroom which Hatch had searched. He flung open the bathroom and peered in, only to shut it immediately. Then he tried the handle of another door, a closet. It was fastened.
"Ah!" he exclaimed.
Then on his hands and knees he sniffed at the crack between the door and the flooring. Suddenly, as if satisfied, he arose and stepped away from the door.
"Smash that door in," he directed.
Detective Mallory looked at him stupefied. There was a similar expression on Hatch's face.
"What's-what's in there?" the detective asked.
"Smash it," said the other, tartly. "Smash it, or God knows what you'll find in there."
The detective, a powerful man, and Hatch threw their weight against the door; it stood rigid. They pulled at the handle; it refused to yield.
"Lend me your revolver?" asked The Thinking Machine.
The weapon was in his hand almost before the detective was aware of it, and, placing the barrel to the keyhole, The Thinking Machine pulled the trigger. There was a resonant report, the lock was smashed and the detective put out his hand to open the door.
"Look out for a shot," warned The Thinking Machine, sharply.
VI.
The Thinking Machine drew Detective Mallory and Hatch to one side, out of immediate range of any person who might rush out, then pulled the closet door open. A cloud of suffocating fumes-the sweet, sickening odor of chloroform-gushed out, but there was no sound from inside. The detective looked at The Thinking Machine inquiringly.
Carefully, almost gingerly, the scientist peered around the edge of the door. What he saw did not startle him, because it was what he expected. It was Constans St. George lying prone on the floor as if dead, with a blood-spattered revolver clasped loosely in one hand; the other hand grasped the throat of a woman, a woman of superb physical beauty, who also lay with face upturned, staring glassily.
"Open the windows-all of them, then help me," commanded the scientist.
As Detective Mallory and Hatch turned to obey the instructions, The Thinking Machine took the revolver from the inert fingers of the artist. Then Hatch and Mallory returned and together they lifted the unconscious forms toward a window.
"It's Grace Field," said the reporter.
In silence for half an hour the scientist labored over the unconscious forms of his three patients. The detective and reporter stood by, doing only what they were told to do. The wind, cold and stinging, came pouring through the windows, and it was only a few minutes until the chloroform odor was dissipated. The first of the three unconscious ones to show any sign of returning comprehension was Victor Willis, whose presence at all in the apartments furnished one of the mysteries which Hatch could not fathom.
It was evident that his condition was primarily due to the wounds on his head-two of which bled profusely. The chloroform had merely served to further deaden his mentality. The wounds were made with the butt of the revolver, evidently in the hands of the artist. Willis's eyes opened finally and he stared at the faces bending over him with uncomprehending eyes.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You're all right now," was the scientist's assuring answer. "This man is your prisoner, Detective Mallory, for breaking and entering and for the attempted murder of Mr. St. George."
Detective Mallory was delighted. Here was something he could readily understand; a human being given over to his care; a tangible thing to put handcuffs on and hold. He immediately proceeded to put the handcuffs on.
"Any need of an ambulance?" he asked.
"No," replied The Thinking Machine. "He'll be all right in half an hour."