"What were the circumstances, exactly?" asked Hatch.
"I'm a traveling man," Manning explained. "I go everywhere. A friend gave me a card to the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg and I went there. There were five or six of us playing poker, among them Mr.-Mr. Doane here. I sat at the same table with him for twenty hours or so, but I can't recall his last name to save me. It isn't Doane, I'm positive. I have an excellent memory for faces, and I know you're the man. Don't you remember me?"
"I haven't the slightest recollection of ever having seen you before in my life," was Doane's slow reply. "I have no recollection of ever having been in Pittsburg-no recollection of anything."
"Do you know if Mr. Doane is a resident of Pittsburg?" Hatch inquired. "Or was he there as a visitor, as you were?"
"Couldn't tell you to save my life," replied Manning. "Lord, it's amazing, isn't it? You don't remember me? You called me Bill all evening."
The other man shook his head.
"Well, say, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Nothing, thanks," said Doane. "Only tell me my name, and who I am."
"Lord, I don't know."
"What sort of a club is the Lincoln?" asked Hatch.
"It's a sort of a millionaire's club," Manning explained. "Lots of iron men belong to it. I had considerable business with them-that's what took me to Pittsburg."
"And you are absolutely positive this is the man you met there?"
"Why, I know it. I never forget faces; it's my business to remember them."
"Did he say anything about a family?"
"Not that I recall. A man doesn't usually speak of his family at a poker table."
"Do you remember the exact date or the month?"
"I think it was in January or February possibly," was the reply. "It was bitterly cold and the snow was all smoked up. Yes, I'm positive it was in January, three years ago."
After awhile the men separated. Manning was stopping at the Hotel Teutonic and willingly gave his name and permanent address to Hatch, explaining at the same time that he would be in the city for several days and was perfectly willing to help in any way he could. He took also the address of The Thinking Machine.
From the cafe Hatch and Doane returned to the scientist. They found him with two telegrams spread out on a table before him. Briefly Hatch told the story of the meeting with Manning, while Doane sank down with his head in his hands. The Thinking Machine listened without comment.
"Here," he said, at the conclusion of the recital, and he offered one of the telegrams to Hatch. "I got the name of a shoemaker from Mr. Doane's shoe and wired to him in Denver, asking if he had a record of the sale. This is the answer. Read it aloud."
Hatch did so.
"Shoes such as described made nine weeks ago for Preston Bell, cashier Blank National Bank of Butte. Don't know John Doane."
"Well-what--" Doane began, bewildered.
"It means that you are Preston Bell," said Hatch, emphatically.
"No," said The Thinking Machine, quickly. "It means that there is only a strong probability of it."
The door bell rang. After a moment Martha appeared.
"A lady to see you, sir," she said.
"Her name?"
"Mrs. John Doane."
"Gentlemen, kindly step into the next room," requested The Thinking Machine.
Together Hatch and Doane passed through the door. There was an expression of-of-no man may say what-on Doane's face as he went.
"Show her in here, Martha," instructed the scientist.
There was a rustle of silk in the hall, the curtains on the door were pulled apart quickly and a richly gowned woman rushed into the room.
"My husband? Is he here?" she demanded, breathlessly. "I went to the hotel; they said he came here for treatment. Please, please, is he here?"
"A moment, madam," said The Thinking Machine. He stepped to the door through which Hatch and Doane had gone, and said something. One of them appeared in the door. It was Hutchinson Hatch.
"John, John, my darling husband," and the woman flung her arms about Hatch's neck. "Don't you know me?"
With blushing face Hatch looked over her shoulder into the eyes of The Thinking Machine, who stood briskly rubbing his hands. Never before in his long acquaintance with the scientist had Hatch seen him smile.
V.
For a time there was silence, broken only by sobs, as the woman clung frantically to Hatch, with her face buried on his shoulder. Then:
"Don't you remember me?" she asked again and again. "Your wife? Don't you remember me?"
Hatch could still see the trace of a smile on the scientist's face, and said nothing.
"You are positive this gentleman is your husband?" inquired The Thinking Machine, finally.
"Oh, I know," the woman sobbed. "Oh, John, don't you remember me?" She drew away a little and looked deeply into the reporter's eyes. "Don't you remember me, John?"
"Can't say that I ever saw you before," said Hatch, truthfully enough. "I-I-fact is--"
"Mr. Doane's memory is wholly gone now," explained The Thinking Machine. "Meanwhile, perhaps you would tell me something about him. He is my patient. I am particularly interested."
The voice was soothing; it had lost for the moment its perpetual irritation. The woman sat down beside Hatch. Her face, pretty enough in a bold sort of way, was turned to The Thinking Machine inquiringly. With one hand she stroked that of the reporter.
"Where are you from?" began the scientist. "I mean where is the home of John Doane?"
"In Buffalo," she replied, glibly. "Didn't he even remember that?"
"And what's his business?"