"I-I don't know," she stammered. "Surely you don't think that I--"
"Mr. Hatch, 'phone at once for an ambulance and then see if it is possible to get Detective Mallory here immediately. I shall give Miss Devan into custody on the charge of shooting this man."
The girl stared at him dully for a moment and then dropped back into a chair with dead white face and fear-distended eyes. Hatch went out, seeking a telephone, and for a time Miss Devan sat silent, as if dazed. Finally, with an effort, she aroused herself and facing The Thinking Machine defiantly, burst out:
"I didn't shoot him. I didn't, I didn't. He did it himself."
The long, slender fingers of The Thinking Machine closed on the revolver and gently removed it from the hand of the wounded man.
"Ah, I was mistaken," he said suddenly, "he was not as badly wounded as I thought. See! He is reviving."
"Reviving," exclaimed Miss Devan. "Won't he die, then?'"
"Why?" asked The Thinking Machine sharply.
"It seems so pitiful, almost a confession of guilt," she hurriedly exclaimed. "Won't he die?"
Gradually the color was coming back into Stockton's face. The Thinking Machine bending over him, with one hand on the heart, saw the eyelids quiver and then slowly the eyes opened. Almost immediately the strength of the heart beat grew perceptibly stronger. Stockton stared at him a moment, then wearily his eyelids drooped again.
"Why did Miss Devan shoot you?" The Thinking Machine demanded.
There was a pause and the eyes opened for the second time. Miss Devan stood within range of the glance, her hands outstretched entreatingly toward Stockton.
"Why did she shoot you?" repeated The Thinking Machine.
"She-did-not," said Stockton slowly. "I-did-it-myself."
For an instant there was a little wrinkle of perplexity on the brow of The Thinking Machine and then it passed.
"Purposely?" he asked.
"I did it myself."
Again the eyes closed and Stockton seemed to be passing into unconsciousness. The Thinking Machine glanced up to find an infinite expression of relief on Miss Devan's face. His own manner changed; became almost abject, in fact, as he turned to her again.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I made a mistake."
"Will he die?"
"No, that was another mistake. He will recover."
Within a few moments a City Hospital ambulance rattled up to the door and John Stockton was removed. It was with a feeling of pity that Hatch assisted Miss Devan, now almost in a fainting condition, to her room. The Thinking Machine had previously given her a slight stimulant. Detective Mallory had not answered the call by 'phone.
The Thinking Machine and Hatch returned to Boston. At the Park Street subway they separated, after The Thinking Machine had given certain instructions. Hatch spent most of the following day carrying out these instructions. First he went to see Dr. Benton, the physician who issued the death certificate on which Pomeroy Stockton was buried. Dr. Benton was considerably alarmed when the reporter broached the subject of his visit. After a time he talked freely of the case.
"I have known John Stockton since we were in college together," he said, "and I believe him to be one of the few really good men I know. I can't believe otherwise. Singularly enough, he is also one of the few good men who has made his own fortune. There is nothing hypocritical about him.
"Immediately after his father was found dead, he 'phoned to me and I went out to the house in Dorchester. He explained then that it was apparent Pomeroy Stockton had committed suicide. He dreaded the disgrace that public knowledge would bring on an honored name, and asked me what could be done. I suggested the only thing I knew-that was the issuance of a death certificate specifying natural causes-heart disease, I said. This act was due entirely to my friendship for him.
"I examined the body and found a trace of prussic acid on Pomeroy's tongue. Beside the chair on which he sat a bottle of prussic acid had been broken. I made no autopsy, of course. Ethically I may have sinned, but I feel that no real harm has been done. Of course, now that you know the real facts my entire career is at stake."
"There is no question in your mind but what it was suicide?" asked Hatch.
"Not the slightest. Then, too, there was the letter, which was found in Pomeroy Stockton's pocket. I saw that and if there had been any doubt then it was removed. This letter, I think, was then in Miss Devan's possession. I presume it is still."
"Do you know anything about Miss Devan?"
"Nothing, except that she is an adopted daughter, who for some reason retained her own family name. Three or four years ago she had a little love affair, to which John Stockton objected. I believe he was the cause of it being broken off. As a matter of fact, I think at one time he was himself in love with her and she refused to accept him as a suitor. Since that time there has been some slight friction, but I know nothing of this except in a general way from what he has said to me."
Then Hatch proceeded to carry out the other part of The Thinking Machine's instructions. This was to see the attorney in whose possession Pomeroy Stockton's will was supposed to be and to ask him why there had been a delay in the reading of the will.
Hatch found the attorney, Frederick Sloane, without difficulty. Without reservation Hatch laid all the circumstances as he knew them before Mr. Sloane. Then came the question of why the will had not been read. Mr. Sloane, too, was frank.
"It's because the will is not now in my possession," he said. "It has either been mislaid, lost, or possibly stolen. I did not care for the family to know this just now, and delayed the reading of the will while I made a search for it. Thus far I have found not a trace. I haven't even the remotest idea where it is."
"What does the will provide?" asked Hatch.
"It leaves the bulk of the estate to John Stockton, settles an annuity of $5,000 a year on Miss Devan, gives her the Dorchester house, and specifically cuts off other relatives whom Pomeroy Stockton once accused of stealing an invention he made. The letter, found after Mr. Stockton's death--"
"You knew of that letter, too?" Hatch interrupted.
"Oh, yes, this letter confirms the will, except, in general terms, it also cuts off Miss Devan."
"Would it not be to the interest of the other immediate relatives of Stockton, those who were specifically cut off, to get possession of that will and destroy it?"
"Of course it might be, but there has been no communication between the two branches of the family for several years. That branch lives in the far West and I have taken particular pains to ascertain that they could not have had anything to do with the disappearance of the will."
With these new facts in his possession, Hatch started to report to The Thinking Machine. He had to wait half an hour or so. At last the scientist came in.
"I've been attending an autopsy," he said.
"An autopsy? Whose?"
"On the body of Pomeroy Stockton."
"Why, I had thought he had been buried."
"No, only placed in a receiving vault. I had to call the attention of the Medical Examiner to the case in order to get permission to make an autopsy. We did it together."
"What did you find?" asked Hatch.
"What did you find?" asked The Thinking Machine, in turn.
Briefly Hatch told him of the interview with Dr. Benton and Mr. Sloane. The scientist listened without comment and at the end sat back in his big chair squinting at the ceiling.
"That seems to finish it," he said. "These are the questions which were presented: First, In what manner did Pomeroy Stockton die? Second, If not suicide, as appeared, what motive was there for anything else? Third, If there was a motive, to whom does it lead? Fourth, What was in the cipher letter? Now, Mr. Hatch, I think I may make all of it clear. There was a cipher in the letter-what may be described as a cipher in five, the figure five being the key to it.