"But he's the sort of man who would scuttle to cover like a scared rabbit," Hatch protested. "Wouldn't matter how badly hurt he was, if he could walk he would hide."
"You seem to think, Mr. Hatch, that leaping through a window, taking all the glass with you, and falling twenty feet to a hard pavement, is a trivial affair," declared the scientist crabbedly. "If this man wasn't badly hurt, it's a miracle; therefore--" He stopped abruptly and squinted at the newspaper man. "I'm going to state a case and ask you a question," he went on suddenly. "Before I do it I'll write the answer you will give on this bit of paper. You are an intelligent man; so I'll demonstrate to you how intelligent minds run in the same channel."
He scribbled a few words hurriedly, folded the paper twice, and handed it to the reporter.
"Now you are the burglar," he resumed, "a man perhaps well known to the police. You jumped from that window and hurt yourself seriously. You need medical attention; yet you can't afford to run the slightest risk of capture. You have no hat or coat. You go to physician, not too near the scene of the affair, and you tell a story to account for your condition. What could you say to do away with all suspicion, and make yourself perfectly safe, at least for the moment?"
Hatch smiled whimsically as he turned and twisted the scrap of paper in his fingers, then lighted a cigarette and got down to the matter in hand seriously.
"I think," he said at last slowly, and feeling unaccountably sheepish about it, "that the safest story to tell the physician would be that I had been thrown from an automobile, lost my hat, say, cut myself going head foremost through the glass front when the car ran away, badly bruised by the violence with which I hit the ground; and all that sort of thing."
The Thinking Machine glared at him aggressively for an instant, then arose and left the room. Hatch drew a long breath, then opened the folded paper reluctantly. He found only these words:
"Runaway automobile-cut by diving through glass front-hat lost-bruises and other lacerations by fall to ground."
When the scientist returned, he wore his hat and overcoat.
"Mr. Hatch, go at once to Mr. Mills, and inquire if he has yet learned of anything being missing from the study-a paper of some sort, in all probability," he instructed. "Then, without mentioning the matter to him, take other steps to learn the nature of any litigation which might be pending in which he is concerned-I imagine something is either now going on or will be going on in a few days. Run by this evening to see me."
"Are you going with me?" inquired the reporter.
"No, no," responded the scientist impatiently. "I'm going to see the man who jumped out of the window."
When Ruby Reagan, expert cracksman, awoke to consciousness he found himself gazing straight into two squinting blue eyes, magnified beyond all proportion by the thick spectacles through which he saw them. The eyes were set far back in a thin, drawn face, and above them was a shock of straw yellow hair.
"Be perfectly quiet," said The Thinking Machine. "You are safe enough, and in a day or so you will be all right."
"Who are you?" demanded Reagan suspiciously.
"I am acting for the gentleman who employed you to get that-that document from Mr. Mills's study," replied the scientist glibly. "You are in my home. The doctor fixed you up, and I brought you here as soon as I found you. He doesn't suspect anything. He thinks you were injured in an automobile accident, as you said."
The cracksman closed his eyes to think about it. Weakly, for he had lost much blood, he gradually pieced together a shattered recollection of events of the last few hours,-the jump, his hurts, that staggering run through deserted streets to get away from that place, the final collapse at the very door of a physician, the muttered story he told to account for his wounds. Then he looked again into the inscrutable face of The Thinking Machine. It all seemed regular enough.
"The cops don't know?" he demanded suddenly.
"No," replied The Thinking Machine emphatically. "Who fired the shot?"
"The ghost lady," replied the cracksman promptly. "Guess she didn't mean to, though, cause she seemed as anxious to be quiet as I was."
"And of course you jumped when you heard some one at the door?"
"Betcher neck!" replied Reagan grimly. "The cops ain't never had me yet, an' I don't intend to break no record."
"And the ghost lady," resumed the scientist. "Tell me about her."
And then the story of the strange happenings in the study that night as Reagan recalled them was told. "And I didn't get the paper at that," he concluded.
"You say the ghost lady was all in white?"
"Sure," was the reply. "I don't know really whether she was a ghost or not; but she started the mix-up." He was silent for a moment. "But le'me tell you she must have been a ghost. She couldn't have got in that room any other way. She slid in through the keyhole or something."
"And she called you by name, you say?"
"Yes. That's another thing that makes me think she's a ghost. How did she know my name. And why did she ask me if I got it?"
Hutchinson Hatch called an hour later. There was something of elation, excitement nearly, in his manner. He found The Thinking Machine stretched out in a huge chair in the laboratory, with unruffled brow, and idly twiddling fingers.
"The litigation, Mr. Hatch," said the latter without turning.
"Well, there are a dozen cases in which he is interested one way or another," Hatch informed him; "but there is one particularly--"
"Something about property rights, I imagine?" interrupted the scientist.
"Yes," said the reporter. "There's a fortune involved, and a vast deal of real estate. A business partner of Mills, Martin Pendexter by name, died three or four years ago and his grandson, now about twenty-two years old, is suing to recover certain money and property from Mills, alleging that Mills assumed it as his own when Pendexter died. Mills has steadfastly refused to go into the matter, or even discuss it, and finally the boy brought the suit. It has been postponed several times; but it's to come up for hearing soon."
"Mr. Mills, then, holds title to this property?" inquired The Thinking Machine.
"I presume if he hadn't felt safe in his position he would not have permitted the matter to go into court," replied Hatch. "I figure that Mills does hold a release from Pendexter of the property, and intends to produce it in court. He has advised the boy several times not to sue; but would never give a reason."
"Oh!" and for a long time the scientist sat silent. "Of course-of course," he mused, half aloud. "Then the ghost woman was one of the--"
"And there's another thing," Hatch rushed on impatiently. "Detective Downey told me a little while ago the police have established the identity of at least one person who was in the study that night, by the kit of tools left behind. His name is Ruby Reagan."
"Ruby Reagan," repeated the scientist thoughtfully. "Oh, yes. He's asleep in the next room there."
The Thinking Machine was talking; Mills, Detective Mallory, and Hutchinson Hatch were listening.
"There is no puzzle about it at all," declared the scientist. "Briefly what happened was this: A burglar was employed by a man who is suing you, Mr. Mills, to go into your study and find, if indeed such a thing is in existence, the document upon which you must depend to prove your title to the Pendexter property now in dispute.
"Well, this burglar went to that study and looked for that document-vainly, I may say here. While looking for that he found the money in the box. He was tempted then, contrary to orders, perhaps, and put this money in his pocket. Later he was compelled at the point of a revolver to put the money back in the box, and in his hurry to obey orders he put in a ten-dollar bill of his own. The person who compelled him to replace the money was-was--"
He paused, wrote something on a slip of paper, and passed it to Mills.
"What!" exclaimed Mills incredulously.
"No names, please-yet, anyway," broke in the scientist. "Anyway, it was a woman, I may say a woman of great courage, even audacity. She had gained possession of the burglar's revolver, and with two weapons ordered him to go. The burglar precipitated a struggle, a shot was fired by accident, perhaps, and that is the shot which went through the tin box. The burglar jumped through the window and escaped. The woman, who was in the room, perhaps behind the curtain of the door when the burglar entered, had come there to get that particular document he was seeking. At the time he jumped we can imagine how she managed to get out into the hall when the door flew open, and you and your man O'Brien entered.
"The next we know of that woman she was with the others screaming. A little logic shows us that after that first fright, when the house was perfectly still again, the woman, not knowing O'Brien was on watch, returned to that study again to seek that document. He was sitting in the dark, heard her, and flashed on the electric lights. She was surprised, she screamed, was recognized by O'Brien, and then for some consideration that does not appear-probably a bribe-induced O'Brien to disappear. Again she avoided discovery, and if an investigation had been made she would have been found in bed, I dare say.
"Being totally ignorant now, of the incidents leading up to the pistol shot and the burglar's escape, the first point that the logical mind can seize upon is the finding of more money in the tin box than was known to be there. Therefore, we know that that box had been opened, and we know that the burglar was either an honest man or was compelled to be honest. We know too from the fact that a thirty-eight caliber revolver was found, that there was a second revolver-the one from which the shot was fired. Burglars are not honest. Was this one compelled to be honest? What honest person could be in that room--lone with that burglar, remember? You see instantly a thousand possibilities.
"Without pursuing those possibilities at the moment, it came down to a question of finding the burglar-the dishonest one, I may say. That was not difficult, only tedious work on the telephone, seeking a doctor who had treated a man who was probably-probably, you note-injured in an automobile accident. I found your Ruby Reagan, Mr. Mallory, and from him I learned just what happened at first-a woman in white, a ghost woman, obviously some woman in the house. White lacy gowns are not popular for street wear at two o'clock in the morning."
"I wonder if this is absolutely necessary, Mr. Van Dusen?" interrupted Mills. His face was white. "I think I understand, and I assure you the matter has taken a personal turn which may mean a great deal to me and my family."
The Thinking Machine waved his hand as if the matter was dismissed.