"Two years-last June."
"Most remarkable," supplemented the scientist. Mr. van Safford stared. "How old are you?"
"Thirty."
"How long have you been thirty?"
"Six months-since last May."
There was a long pause. Mr. van Safford plainly did not see the trend of the questioning.
"How old is your wife?" demanded the scientist.
"Twenty-two, in January."
"She has never had any mental trouble of any sort?"
"No, no."
"Have you any brothers or sisters?"
"No."
"Has she?"
"No."
The Thinking Machine shot out the questions crustily and Mr. van Safford answered briefly. There was another pause, and the young man arose and paced back and forth with nervous energy. From time to time he glanced inquiringly at the pale, wizened face of the scientist. Several thin lines had appeared in the dome-like brow, and he was apparently oblivious of the other's presence.
"It's a most intangible, elusive affair," he commented at last, and the wrinkles deepened. "It is, I may say, a problem without a given quantity. Perfectly extraordinary."
Mr. van Safford seemed a little relieved to find some one express his own thoughts so accurately.
"You don't believe, of course," continued the scientist, "that there is anything criminal in--"
"Certainly not!" the young man exploded, violently.
"Yet, the moment we pursue this to a logical conclusion," pursued the other, "we are more than likely to uncover something which is, to put it mildly, not pleasant."
Mr. van Safford's face was perfectly white; his hands were clenched desperately. Then the loyalty to the woman he loved flooded his heart.
"It's nothing of that kind," he exclaimed, and yet his own heart misgave him. "My wife is the dearest, noblest, sweetest woman in the world. And yet--"
"Yet you are jealous of her," interrupted The Thinking Machine. "If you are so sure of her, why annoy me with your troubles?"
The young man read, perhaps, a deeper meaning than The Thinking Machine had intended for he started forward impulsively. The Thinking Machine continued to squint at him impersonally, but did not change his position.
"All young men are fools," he went on, blandly, "and I may add that most of the old ones are, too. But now the question is: What purpose can your wife have in acting as she has, and in misrepresenting those acts to you? Of course we must spy upon her to find out, and the answer may be one that will wreck your future happiness. It may be, I say. I don't know. Do you still want the answer?"
"I want to know-I want to know," burst out Mr. van Safford, harshly. "I shall go mad unless I know."
The Thinking Machine continued to squint at him with almost a gleam of pity in his eyes-almost but not quite. And the habitually irritated voice was in no way softened when he gave some explicit and definite instructions.
"Go on about your affairs," he commanded. "Let things go as they are. Don't quarrel with your wife; continue to ask your questions because if you don't she'll suspect that you suspect; report to me any change in her conduct. It's a very singular problem. Certainly I have never had another like it."
The Thinking Machine accompanied him to the door and closed it behind him.
"I have never seen a man in love," he mused, "who wasn't in trouble."
And with this broad, philosophical conclusion he went to the 'phone. Half an hour later Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, entered the laboratory where the scientist sat in deep thought.
"Ah, Mr. Hatch," he began, without preliminary, "did you ever happen to hear of Mr. and Mrs. van Safford?"
"Well, rather," responded the reporter with quick interest. "He's a well known club-man, worth millions, high in society and all that; and she's one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. She was a Miss Potter before marriage."
"It's wonderful the memories you newspaper men have," observed the scientist. "You know her personally?"
Hatch shook his head.
"You must find some one who knows her well," commanded The Thinking Machine, "a girl friend, for instance-one who might be in her confidence. Learn from her why Mrs. van Safford leaves her house every morning at eight o'clock, then tells her husband she has been with some one that we know she hasn't seen. She has done this every day for four days. Your assiduity in this may prevent a divorce."
Hatch pricked up his ears.
"Also find out just what sort of an illness Miss Nell Blakesley has-or is-suffering. That's all."
An hour later Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, called on Miss Gladys Beekman, a young society woman who was an intimate of Mrs. van Safford's before the latter's marriage. Without feeling that he was dallying with the truth Hatch informed her that he called on behalf of Mr. van Safford. She began to smile. He laid the case before her emphatically, seriously and with great detail. The more he explained the more pleasantly she smiled. It made him uncomfortable but he struggled on to the end.
"I'm glad she did it," exclaimed Miss Beekman. "But I-I couldn't believe she would."
Then came a sudden gust of laughter which left Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, with the feeling that he was being imposed upon. It continued for a full minute-a hearty, rippling, musical laugh. Hatch grinned sheepishly. Then, without an excuse, Miss Beekman arose and left the room. In the hall there came a fresh burst, and Hatch heard it dying away in the distance.
"Well," he muttered grimly. "I'm glad I was able to amuse her."
Then he called upon a Mrs. Francis, a young matron whom he had cause to believe was also favoured with Mrs. van Safford's friendship. He laid the case before her, and she laughed! Then Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, began to get mule-headed about it. He visited eight other women who were known to be on friendly terms with Mrs. van Safford. Six of them intimated that he was an impertinent, prying, inquisitive person, and-the other two laughed! Hatch paused a moment and rubbed his fevered brow.
"Here's a corking good joke on somebody," he told himself, "and I'm beginning to think it's me."
Whereupon he took his troubles to The Thinking Machine. That distinguished gentleman listened in pained surprise to the simple recital of what Hatch had not been able to learn, and spidery wrinkles on his forehead assumed the relative importance of the canals on Mars.
"It's astonishing!" he declared, raspily.
"Yes, it so struck me," agreed the reporter.
The Thinking Machine was silent for a long time; the watery blue eyes were turned upward and the slender white fingers pressed tip to tip. Finally he made up his mind as to the next step.
"There seems only one thing to do," he said. "And I won't ask you to do that."
"What is it?" demanded the reporter.