"What's the next move?" asked Hatch.
"I'm going to find the jewels," was the startling reply.
"Find them?" Hatch repeated.
"Certainly."
They entered the house through the kitchen and the scientist squinted this way and that, through the reception-room, the library, and finally the back hallway. Here a closed door in the flooring led to a cellar.
In the cellar they found heaps of litter. It was damp and chilly and dark. The Thinking Machine stood in the center, or as near the center as he could stand, because the base of the chimney occupied this precise spot, and apparently did some mental calculation.
From that point he started around the walls, solidly built of stone, stooping and running his fingers along the stones as he walked. He made the entire circuit as Hatch looked on. Then he made it again, but this time with his hands raised above his head, feeling the walls carefully as he went. He repeated this at the chimney, going carefully around the masonry, high and low.
"Dear me, dear me!" he exclaimed, petulantly. "You are taller than I am, Mr. Hatch. Please feel carefully around the top of this chimney base and see if the rocks are all solidly set."
Hatch then began a tour. At last one of the great stones which made this base trembled under his hand.
"It's loose," he said.
"Take it out."
It came out after a deal of tugging.
"Put your hand in there and pull out what you find," was the next order. Hatch obeyed. He found a wooden box, about eight inches square, and handed it to The Thinking Machine.
"Ah!" exclaimed that gentleman.
A quick wrench caused the decaying wood to crumble. Tumbling out of the box were the jewels which had been lost for fifty years.
V.
Excitement, long restrained, burst from Hatch in a laugh-almost hysterical. He stooped and gathered up the fallen jewelry and handed it to The Thinking Machine, who stared at him in mild surprise.
"What's the matter?" inquired the scientist.
"Nothing," Hatch assured him, but again he laughed.
The heavy stone which had been pulled out of place was lifted up and forced back into position, and together they returned to the village, with the long-lost jewelry loose in their pockets.
"How did you do it?' asked Hatch.
"Two and two always make four," was the enigmatic reply. "It was merely a sum in addition." There was a pause as they walked on, then: "Don't say anything about finding this, or even hint at it in any way, until you have my permission to do so."
Hatch had no intention of doing so. In his mind's eye he saw a story, a great, vivid, startling story spread all over his newspaper about flaming phantoms and treasure trove-$100,000 in jewels. It staggered him. Of course he would say nothing about it-even hint at it, yet. But when he did say something about it--!
In the village The Thinking Machine found the constable.
"I understand some blood was thrown on you at the Weston place the other night?"
"Yes. Blood-warm blood."
"You wiped it off with your handkerchief?"
"Yes."
"Have you the handkerchief?"
"I suppose I might get it," was the doubtful reply. "It might have gone into the wash."
"Astute person," remarked The Thinking Machine. "There might have been a crime and you throw away the one thing which would indicate it-the blood stains."
The constable suddenly took notice.
"By ginger!" he said. "Wait here and I'll go see if I can find it."
He disappeared and returned shortly with the handkerchief. There were half a dozen blood stains on it, now dark brown.
The Thinking Machine dropped into the village drug store and had a short conversation with the owner, after which he disappeared into the compounding room at the back and remained for an hour or more-until darkness set in. Then he came out and joined Hatch, who, with the constable, had been waiting.
The reporter did not ask any questions, and The Thinking Machine volunteered no information.
"Is it too late for anyone to get down from Boston to-night?" he asked the constable.
"No. He could take the eight o'clock train and be here about half-past nine."
"Mr. Hatch, will you wire to Mr. Weston-Ernest Weston-and ask him to come to-night, sure. Impress on him the fact that it is a matter of the greatest importance."
Instead of telegraphing, Hatch went to the telephone and spoke to Weston at his club. The trip would interfere with some other plans, the broker explained, but he would come. The Thinking Machine had meanwhile been conversing with the constable and had given some sort of instructions which evidently amazed that official exceedingly, for he kept repeating "By ginger!" with considerable fervor.
"And not one word or hint of it to anyone," said The Thinking Machine. "Least of all to the members of your family."
"By ginger!" was the response, and the constable went to supper.
The Thinking Machine and Hatch had their supper thoughtfully that evening in the little village "hotel." Only once did Hatch break this silence.
"You told me to see Weston's handwriting," he said. "Of course you knew he was with the constable and myself when we saw the THING, therefore it would have been impossible--"
"Nothing is impossible," broke in The Thinking Machine. "Don't say that, please."
"I mean that, as he was with us--"
"We'll end the ghost story to-night," interrupted the scientist.
Ernest Weston arrived on the nine-thirty train and had a long, earnest conversation with The Thinking Machine, while Hatch was permitted to cool his toes in solitude. At last they joined the reporter.
"Take a revolver by all means," instructed The Thinking Machine.