"It may be that when he comes to he will have recovered him memory, and in that event he will have absolutely no recollection whatever of you and me," explained The Thinking Machine.
Doane moved a little at last, and under a stimulant the color began to creep back into his pallid face.
"Just what was said, Mr. Hatch, before he collapsed?" asked the scientist.
Hatch explained, repeating the conversation as he remembered it.
"And he said 'sell,' " mused The Thinking Machine. "In other words, he thinks-or imagines he knows-that copper is to drop. I believe the first remark he heard was that copper had gone to smash-down, I presume that means?"
"Yes," the reporter replied.
Half an hour later John Doane sat up on the couch and looked around the room.
"Ah, Professor," he remarked. "I fainted, didn't I?"
The Thinking Machine was disappointed because his patient had not recovered memory with consciousness. The remark showed that he was still in the same mental condition-the man who was lost.
"Sell copper, sell, sell, sell," repeated The Thinking Machine, commandingly.
"Yes, yes, sell," was the reply.
The reflection of some great mental struggle was on Doane's face; he was seeking to recall something which persistently eluded him.
"Copper, copper," the scientist repeated, and he exhibited a penny.
"Yes, copper," said Doane. "I know. A penny."
"Why did you say sell copper?"
"I don't know," was the weary reply. "It seemed to be an unconscious act entirely. I don't know."
He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously and sat for a long time dully staring at the floor. The fight for memory was a dramatic one.
"It seemed to me," Doane explained after awhile, "that the word copper touched some responsive chord in my memory, then it was lost again. Some time in the past, I think, I must have had something to do with copper."
"Yes," said The Thinking Machine, and he rubbed his slender fingers briskly. "Now you are coming around again."
His remarks were interrupted by the appearance of Martha at the door with a telegram. The Thinking Machine opened it hastily. What he saw perplexed him again.
"Dear me! Most extraordinary!" he exclaimed.
"What is it?" asked Hatch, curiously.
The scientist turned to Doane again.
"Do you happen to remember Preston Bell?" he demanded, emphasizing the name explosively.
"Preston Bell?" the other repeated, and again the mental struggle was apparent on his face. "Preston Bell!"
"Cashier of the Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana?" urged the other, still in an emphatic tone. "Cashier Bell?"
He leaned forward eagerly and watched the face of his patient; Hatch unconsciously did the same. Once there was almost realization, and seeing it The Thinking Machine sought to bring back full memory.
"Bell, cashier, copper," he repeated, time after time.
The flash of realization which had been on Doane's face passed, and there came infinite weariness-the weariness of one who is ill.
"I don't remember," he said at last. "I'm very tired."
"Stretch out there on the couch and go to sleep," advised The Thinking Machine, and he arose to arrange a pillow. "Sleep will do you more good than anything else right now. But before you lie down, let me have, please, a few of those hundred-dollar bills you found."
Doane extended the roll of money, and then slept like a child. It was uncanny to Hatch, who had been a deeply interested spectator.
The Thinking Machine ran over the bills and finally selected fifteen of them-bills that were new and crisp. They were of an issue by the Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana. The Thinking Machine stared at the money closely, then handed it to Hatch.
"Does that look like counterfeit to you?" he asked.
"Counterfeit?" gasped Hatch. "Counterfeit?" he repeated. He took the bills and examined them. "So far as I can see they seem to be good," he went on, "though I have never had enough experience with one-hundred-dollar bills to qualify as an expert."
"Do you know an expert?"
"Yes."
"See him immediately. Take fifteen bills and ask him to pass on them, each and every one. Tell him you have reason-excellent reason-to believe that they are counterfeit. When he gives his opinion come back to me."
Hatch went away with the money in his pocket. Then The Thinking Machine wrote another telegram, addressed to Preston Bell, cashier of the Butte Bank. It was as follows:
"Please send me full details of the manner in which money previously described was lost, with names of all persons who might have had any knowledge of the matter. Highly important to your bank and to justice. Will communicate in detail on receipt of your answer."
Then, while his visitor slept, The Thinking Machine quietly removed his shoes and examined them. He found, almost worn away, the name of the maker. This was subjected to close scrutiny under the magnifying glass, after which The Thinking Machine arose with a perceptible expression of relief on his face.
"Why didn't I think of that before?" he demanded of himself.
Then other telegrams went into the West. One was to a customs shoemaker in Denver, Colorado:
"To what financier or banker have you sold within three months a pair of shoes, Senate brand, calfskin blucher, number eight, D last? Do you know John Doane?"
A second telegram went to the Chief of Police of Denver. It was:
"Please wire if any financier, banker or business man has been out of your city for five weeks or more, presumably on business trip. Do you know John Doane?"
Then The Thinking Machine sat down to wait. At last the door bell rang and Hatch entered.
"Well?" demanded the scientist, impatiently.
"The expert declares those are not counterfeit," said Hatch.
Now The Thinking Machine was surprised. It was shown clearly by the quick lifting of the eyebrows, by a sudden snap of his jaws, by a quick forward movement of the yellow head.