"Heard the news?" asked the manager.
"No," Hatch replied. "What is it?"
"Somebody's shot Mr. Henley as he was passing through the Common early to-night."
Hatch whistled in amazement.
"Is he dead?"
"No, but he is unconscious. The hospital doctors say it is a nasty wound, but not necessarily dangerous."
"Who shot him? Do they know?"
"He knows, but he won't say."
Amazed and alarmed by this latest development, an accurate fulfillment of The Thinking Machine's prophecy, Hatch stood thoughtful for a moment, then recovering his composure a little asked for Cabell.
"I don't think there's much chance of seeing him," said the manager. "He's going away on the midnight train-going South, to Virginia."
"Going away to-night?" Hatch gasped.
"Yes; it seems to have been rather a sudden determination. He was talking to me here half an hour or so ago, and said something about going away. While he was here the telephone boy told me that Henley had been shot; they had 'phoned from the hospital to inform us. Then Cabell seemed greatly agitated. He said he was going away to-night, if he could catch the midnight train, and now he's packing."
"I suppose the shooting of Henley upset him considerably?" the reporter suggested.
"Yes, I guess it did," was the reply. "They moved in the same set and belonged to the same clubs."
The manager sent Hatch's card of introduction to Cabell's apartments. Hatch went up and was ushered into a suite identical with that of Henley's in every respect save in minor details of furnishings. Cabell stood in the middle of the floor, with his personal belongings scattered about the room; his valet, evidently a Frenchman, was busily engaged in packing.
Cabell's greeting was perfunctorily cordial; he seemed agitated. His face was flushed and from time to time he ran his fingers through his long, brown hair. He stared at Hatch in a preoccupied fashion, then they fell into conversation about the rent of the apartments.
"I'll take almost anything reasonable," Cabell said hurriedly. "You see, I am going away to-night, rather more suddenly than I had intended, and I am anxious to get the lease off my hands. I pay two hundred dollars a month for these just as they are."
"May I looked them over?" asked Hatch.
He passed from the front room into the next. Here, on a bed, was piled a huge lot of clothing, and the valet, with deft fingers, was brushing and folding, preparatory to packing. Cabell was directly behind him.
"Quite comfortable, you see," he explained. "There's room enough if you are alone. Are you?"
"Oh, yes," Hatch replied.
"This other room here," Cabell explained, "is not in very tidy shape now. I have been out of the city for several weeks, and-- What's the matter?" he demanded suddenly.
Hatch had turned quickly at the words and stared at him, then recovered himself with a start.
"I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I rather thought I saw you in town here a week or so ago-of course I didn't know you-and I was wondering if I could have been mistaken."
"Must have been," said the other easily. "During the time I was away a Miss --, a friend of my sister's, occupied the suite. I'm afraid some of her things are here. She hasn't sent for them as yet. She occupied this room, I think; when I came back a few days ago she took another place and all her things haven't been removed."
"I see," remarked Hatch, casually. "I don't suppose there's any chance of her returning here unexpectedly if I should happen to take her apartments?"
"Not the slightest. She knows I am back, and thinks I am to remain. She was to send for these things."
Hatch gazed about the room ostentatiously. Across a trunk lay a Turkish bath robe with a scarlet stripe in it. He was anxious to get hold of it, to examine it closely. But he didn't dare to, then. Together they returned to the front room.
"I rather like the place," he said, after a pause, "but the price is--"
"Just a moment," Cabell interrupted. "Jean, before you finish packing that suit case be sure to put my bath robe in it. It's in the far room."
Then one question was settled for Hatch. After a moment the valet returned with the bath robe, which had been in the far room. It was Cabell's bath robe. As Jean passed the reporter an end of the robe caught on a corner of the trunk, and, stopping, the reporter unfastened it. A tiny strand of thread clung to the metal; Hatch detached it and stood idly twirling it in his fingers.
"As I was saying," he resumed, "I rather like the place, but the price is too much. Suppose you leave it in the hands of the manager of the house--"
"I had intended doing that," the Southerner interrupted.
"Well, I'll see him about it later," Hatch added.
With a cordial, albeit pre-occupied, handshake, Cabell ushered him out. Hatch went down in the elevator with a feeling of elation; a feeling that he had accomplished something. The manager was waiting to get into the lift.
"Do you happen to remember the name of the young lady who occupied Mr. Cabell's suite while he was away?" he asked.
"Miss Austin," said the manager, "but she's not young. She was about forty-five years old, I should judge."
"Did Mr. Cabell have his servant Jean with him?"
"Oh, no," said the manager. "The valet gave up the suite to Miss Austin entirely, and until Mr. Cabell returned occupied a room in the quarters we have for our own employees."
"Was Miss Austin ailing in any way?" asked Hatch. "I saw a large number of medicine bottles upstairs."
"I don't know what was the matter with her," replied the manager, with a little puzzled frown. "She certainly was not a woman of sound mental balance-that is, she was eccentric, and all that. I think rather it was an act of charity for Mr. Cabell to let her have the suite in his absence. Certainly we didn't want her."
Hatch passed out and burst in eagerly upon The Thinking Machine in his laboratory.
"Here," he said, and triumphantly he extended the tiny scarlet strand which he had received from The Thinking Machine, and the other of the identical color which came from Cabell's bath robe. "Is that the same?"
The Thinking Machine placed them under the microscope and examined them immediately. Later he submitted them to a chemical test.
"It is the same," he said, finally.
"Then the mystery is solved," said Hatch, conclusively.
V.
The Thinking Machine stared steadily into the eager, exultant eyes of the newspaper man until Hatch at last began to fear that he had been precipitate. After awhile, under close scrutiny, the reporter began to feel convinced that he had made a mistake-he didn't quite see where, but it must be there, and the exultant manner passed. The voice of The Thinking Machine was like a cold shower.
"Remember, Mr. Hatch," he said, critically, "that unless every possible question has been considered one cannot boast of a solution. Is there any possible question lingering yet in your mind?"