"Three months."
"Do you know he is there?"
Mr. Meredith started to say something then swallowed it with an effort.
"I know it positively, yes," he replied. "I received this letter dated the second from him three days ago, and to-day I received a cable-dispatch forwarded to me here from Baltimore."
"Are you positive the letter is in your son's handwriting?"
Mr. Meredith almost choked in mingled bewilderment and resentment at the question and the manner of its asking.
"I am positive, yes," he replied at last, preserving his tone of dignity with a perceptible effort. He noted the inscrutable face of his caller and saw the corrugations in the brow suddenly swept away. "What business of yours is it, anyway?" blazed Mr. Meredith suddenly.
"May I ask where you were last Thursday night?" went on the even, steady voice.
"It's no business of yours," Mr. Meredith blurted. "I was in Baltimore."
"Can you prove it in a court of law?"
"Prove it? Of course I can prove it!" Mr. Meredith was fairly bellowing at his impassive interrogator. "But it's nobody's business."
"If you can prove it, Mr. Meredith," remarked The Thinking Machine quietly, coldly, "you had best make your arrangements to do so, because, believe me, it may be necessary to save you from a charge of having stolen the Randolph gold plate on last Thursday night at the masked ball. Good-day, sir."
Chapter IV.
"But Mr. Herbert won't see anyone, sir," protested Blair.
"Tell Mr. Herbert, please, that unless I can see him immediately his bail-bond will be withdrawn," directed The Thinking Machine.
He stood waiting in the hall while Blair went up the stairs. Dick Herbert took the card impatiently and glanced at it.
"Van Dusen," he mused. "Who the deuce is Van Dusen?"
Blair repeated the message he had received below.
"What does he look like?" inquired Dick.
"He's a shrivelled little man with a big yellow head, sir," replied Blair.
"Let him come up," instructed Dick.
Thus, within an hour after he had talked to Mr. Meredith, The Thinking Machine met Dick Herbert.
"What's this about the bail-bond?" Dick inquired.
"I wanted to talk to you," was the scientist's calm reply. "That seemed to be the easiest way to make you believe it was important, so--"
Dick's face flushed crimson at the trick.
"Well, you see me!" he broke out angrily. "I ought to throw you down the stairs, but-what is it?"
Not having been invited to a seat, The Thinking Machine took one anyway and settled himself comfortably.
"If you will listen to me for a moment without interruption," he began testily, "I think the subject of my remarks will be of deep personal concern to you. I am interested in solving this Randolph plate affair and have perhaps gone further in my investigation than anyone else. At least, I know more about it. There are some things I don't happen to know, however, that are of the greatest importance."
"I tell you--" stormed Dick.
"For instance," calmly resumed the scientist, "it is very important for me to know whether or not Harry Meredith was masked when he came into this room last Thursday night."
Dick gazed at him in surprise which approached awe. His eyes were widely distended, the lower part of his face lax, for the instant; then his white teeth closed with a snap and he sat down opposite The Thinking Machine. Anger had gone from his manner; instead there was a pallor of apprehension in the clean-cut face.
"Who are you, Mr. Van Dusen?" he asked at last. His tone was mild, even deferential.
"Was he masked?" insisted the scientist.
For a long while Dick was silent. Finally he arose and paced nervously back and forth across the room, glancing at the diminutive figure of The Thinking Machine each time as he turned.
"I won't say anything," he decided.
"Will you name the cause of the trouble you and Meredith had at Harvard?" asked the scientist.
Again there was a long pause.
"No," Dick said finally.
"Did it have anything to do with theft?"
"I don't know who you are or why you are prying into an affair that, at least on its face, does not concern you," replied Dick. "I'll say nothing at all-unless-unless you produce the one man who can and shall explain this affair. Produce him here in this room where I can get my hands on him!"
The Thinking Machine squinted at the sturdy shoulders with admiration in his face.
"Did it ever happen to occur to you, Mr. Herbert, that Harry Meredith and his father are precisely of the same build?"
Some nameless, impalpable expression crept into Dick's face despite an apparent fight to restrain it, and again he stared at the small man in the chair.
"And that you and Mr. Meredith are practically of the same build?"
Tormented by unasked questions and by those emotions which had compelled him to silence all along, Dick still paced back and forth. His head was whirling. The structure which he had so carefully guarded was tumbling about his ears. Suddenly he stopped and turned upon The Thinking Machine.
"Just what do you know of this affair?" he asked.
"I know for one thing," replied the scientist positively, "that you were not the man in the automobile."
"How do you know that?"
"That's beside the question just now."