"Only eleven, yes."
"And I think you said two shots were fired at the thief?"
"Yes."
"Who fired them, please?"
"One of the detectives-Cunningham, I think."
"It was a detective-you know that?"
"Yes, I know that."
"Yes, yes. Please go on."
"The plate was all spread out-there was no attempt to conceal it," Hatch resumed. "There was a box on the floor and Herbert was about to pack the stuff in it when Detective Mallory and two of his men entered. Herbert's servant, Blair, was away from the house at the time. His people are up in Nova Scotia, so he was alone."
"Nothing but the gold plate was found?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the reporter. "There was a lot of jewelry in a case and fifteen or twenty odd pieces-fifty thousand dollars' worth of stuff, at least. The police took it to find the owners."
"Dear me! Dear me!" exclaimed The Thinking Machine. "Why didn't you mention the jewelry at first? Wait a minute."
Hatch was silent while the scientist continued to squint at the ceiling. He wriggled in his chair uncomfortably and smoked a couple of cigarettes before The Thinking Machine turned to him and nodded.
"That's all I know," said Hatch.
"Did Mr. Herbert say anything when arrested?"
"No, he only laughed. I don't know why. I don't imagine it would have been at all funny to me."
"Has he said anything since?"
"No, nothing to me or anybody else. He was arraigned at a preliminary hearing, pleaded not guilty, and was released on twenty thousand dollars bail. Some of his rich friends furnished it."
"Did he give any reason for his refusal to say anything?" insisted The Thinking Machine testily.
"He remarked to me that he wouldn't say anything, because, even if he told the truth, no one would believe him."
"If it should have been a protestation of innocence I'm afraid nobody would have believed him," commented the scientist enigmatically. He was silent for several minutes. "It could have been a brother, of course," he mused.
"A brother?" asked Hatch quickly. "Whose brother? What brother?"
"As I understand it," the scientist went on, not heeding the question, "you did not believe Herbert guilty of the first theft?"
"Why, I couldn't," Hatch protested. "I couldn't," he repeated.
"Why?"
"Well, because-because he's not that sort of man," explained the reporter. "I've known him for years, personally and by reputation."
"Was he a particular friend of yours in college?"
"No, not an intimate, but he was in my class-and he's a whacking, jam-up, ace-high football player." That squared everything.
"Do you now believe him guilty?" insisted the scientist.
"I can't believe anything else-and yet I'd stake my life on his honesty."
"And Miss Meredith?"
The reporter was reaching the explosive point. He had seen and talked to Miss Meredith, you know.
"It's perfectly asinine to suppose that she had anything to do with either theft, don't you think?"
The Thinking Machine was silent on that point.
"Well, Mr. Hatch," he said finally, "the problem comes down to this: Did a man, and perhaps a woman, who are circumstantially proven guilty of stealing the gold plate, actually steal it? We have the stained cushion of the automobile in which the thieves escaped to indicate that one of them was wounded; we have Mr. Herbert with an injured right shoulder-a hurt received that night on his own statement, though he won't say how. We have, then, the second theft and the finding of the stolen property in his possession along with another lot of stolen stuff-jewels. It is apparently a settled case now without going further."
"But--" Hatch started to protest.
"But suppose we do go a little further," The Thinking Machine went on. "I can prove definitely, conclusively, and finally by settling only two points whether or not Mr. Herbert was wounded while in the automobile. If he was wounded while in that automobile, he was the first thief; if not, he wasn't. If he was the first thief, he was probably the second, but even if he were not the first thief, there is, of course, a possibility that he was the second."
Hatch was listening with mouth open.
"Suppose we begin now," continued The Thinking Machine, "by finding out the name of the physician who treated Mr. Herbert's wound last Thursday night. Mr. Herbert may have a reason for keeping the identity of this physician secret, but, perhaps-wait a minute," and the scientist disappeared into the next room. He was gone for five minutes. "See if the physician who treated the wound wasn't Dr. Clarence Walpole."
The reporter blinked a little.
"Right," he said. "What next?"
"Ask him something about the nature of the wound and all the usual questions."
Hatch nodded.
"Then," resumed The Thinking Machine casually, "bring me some of Mr. Herbert's blood."
The reporter blinked a good deal, and gulped twice.
"How much?" he inquired briskly.
"A single drop on a small piece of glass will do very nicely," replied the scientist.
Chapter II.
The Supreme Police Intelligence of the Metropolitan District was doing some heavy thinking, which, modestly enough, bore generally on his own dazzling perspicacity. Just at the moment he couldn't recall any detector of crime whose lustre in any way dimmed his own, or whose mere shadow, even, had a right to fall on the same earth as his; and this lapse of memory so stimulated his admiration for the subject of his thoughts that he lighted a fresh cigar and put his feet in the middle of the desk.