II.
When John Doane of Nowhere-to all practical purposes-left the home of The Thinking Machine he bore instructions of divers kinds. First he was to get a large map of the United States and study it closely, reading over and pronouncing aloud the name of every city, town and village he found. After an hour of this he was to take a city directory and read over the names, pronouncing them aloud as he did so. Then he was to make out a list of the various professions and higher commercial pursuits, and pronounce these. All these things were calculated, obviously, to arouse the sleeping brain. After Doane had gone The Thinking Machine called up Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, on the 'phone.
"Come up immediately," he requested. "There's something that will interest you."
"A mystery?" Hatch inquired, eagerly.
"One of the most engaging problems that has ever come to my attention," replied the scientist.
It was only a question of a few minutes before Hatch was ushered in. He was a living interrogation point, and repressed a rush of questions with a distinct effort. The Thinking Machine finally told what he knew.
"Now it seems to be," said The Thinking Machine, and he emphasized the "seems," "it seems to be a case of aphasia. You know, of course, what that is. The man simply doesn't know himself. I examined him closely. I went over his head for a sign of a possible depression, or abnormality. It didn't appear. I examined his muscles. He has biceps of great power, is evidently now or has been athletic. His hands are white, well cared for and have no marks on them. They are not the hands of a man who has ever done physical work. The money in his pocket tends to confirm the fact that he is not of that sphere.
"Then what is he? Lawyer? Banker? Financier? What? He might be either, yet he impressed me as being rather of the business than the professional school. He has a good, square-cut jaw-the jaw of a fighting man-and his poise gives one the impression that whatever he has been doing he has been foremost in it. Being foremost in it, he would naturally drift to a city, a big city. He is typically a city man.
"Now, please, to aid me, communicate with your correspondents in the large cities and find if such a name as John Doane appears in any directory. Is he at home now? Has he a family? All about him."
"Do you believe John Doane is his name?" asked the reporter.
"No reason why it shouldn't be," said The Thinking Machine. "Yet it might not be."
"How about inquiries in this city?"
"He can't well be a local man," was the reply. "He has been wandering about the streets for four weeks, and if he had lived here he would have met some one who knew him."
"But the money?"
"I'll probably be able to locate him through that," said The Thinking Machine. "The matter is not at all clear to me now, but it occurs to me that he is a man of consequence, and that it was possibly necessary for some one to get rid of him for a time."
"Well, if it's plain aphasia, as you say," the reporter put in, "it seems rather difficult to imagine that the attack came at a moment when it was necessary to get rid of him."
"I say it seems like aphasia," said the scientist, crustily, "There are known drugs which will produce the identical effect if properly administered."
"Oh," said Hatch. He was beginning to see.
"There is one drug particularly, made in India, and not unlike hasheesh. In a case of this kind anything is possible. To-morrow I shall ask you to take Mr. Doane down through the financial district, as an experiment. When you go there I want you particularly to get him to the sound of the 'ticker.' It will be an interesting experiment."
The reporter went away and The Thinking Machine sent a telegram to the Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana:
"To whom did you issue hundred-dollar bills, series B, numbering 846380 to 846395 inclusive? Please answer."
It was ten o'clock next day when Hatch called on The Thinking Machine. There he was introduced to John Doane, the man who was lost. The Thinking Machine was asking questions of Mr. Doane when Hatch was ushered in.
"Did the map recall nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Montana, Montana, Montana," the scientist repeated monotonously; "think of it. Butte, Montana."
Doane shook his head hopelessly, sadly.
"Cowboy, cowboy. Did you ever see a cowboy?"
Again the head shake.
"Coyote-something like a wolf-coyote. Don't you recall ever having seen one?"
"I'm afraid it's hopeless," remarked the other.
There was a note of more than ordinary irritation in The Thinking Machine's voice when he turned to Hatch.
"Mr. Hatch, will you walk through the financial district with Mr. Doane?" he asked. "Please go to the places I suggested."
So it came to pass that the reporter and Doane went out together, walking through the crowded, hurrying, bustling financial district. The first place visited was a private room where market quotations were displayed on a blackboard. Mr. Doane was interested, but the scene seemed to suggest nothing. He looked upon it all as any stranger might have done. After a time they passed out. Suddenly a man came running toward them-evidently a broker.
"What's the matter?" asked another.
"Montana's copper's gone to smash," was the reply.
"Copper! Copper!" gasped Doane suddenly.
Hatch looked around quickly at his companion. Doane's face was a study. On it was half realization and a deep perplexed wrinkle, a glimmer even of excitement.
"Copper!" he repeated.
"Does the word mean anything to you?" asked Hatch quickly. "Copper-metal, you know."
"Copper, copper, copper," the other repeated. Then, as Hatch looked, the queer expression faded; there came again utter hopelessness.
There are many men with powerful names who operate in the Street-some of them in copper. Hatch led Doane straight to the office of one of these men and there introduced him to a partner in the business.
"We want to talk about copper a little," Hatch explained, still eyeing his companion.
"Do you want to buy or sell?" asked the broker.
"Sell," said Doane suddenly. "Sell, sell, sell copper. That's it-copper."
He turned to Hatch, stared at him dully a moment, a deathly pallor came over his face, then, with upraised hands, fell senseless.
III.
Still unconscious, the man of mystery was removed to the home of The Thinking Machine and there stretched out on a sofa. The Thinking Machine was bending over him, this time in his capacity of physician, making an examination. Hatch stood by, looking on curiously.
"I never saw anything like it," Hatch remarked. "He just threw up his hands and collapsed. He hasn't been conscious since."