Jacques Futrelle

“ George was in love with her,” went on The Thinking Machine. “So, I should imagine a solution of the mystery might be reached by taking St. George as the center of the affair. Suicide may be passed by for the moment, because she had no known motive for suicide—rather, if she loved Willis, she had every reason to live. Murder, too, may be passed for the moment—although there is a possibility that we might come back to that. Question St. George. He will listen if you make him, and then he must answer.”
“But his place is all closed up,” said Hatch. “It is supposed he is half crazy.” ”

“ Hatch had called my attention to the burglary of St. George's apartments. One reading of that convinced me that it was Willis who did this. Why? Because burglars don't burst in doors when they think anyone is inside; they pick the lock. Knowing, too, Willis's insane jealousy, I figured that he would be the type of man who would go there to kill St. George if he could, particularly if he thought the girl was there. ”

“ It was all a mystery to Hatch, and he was rather glad of it when Detective Mallory asked what it meant.
“Means that there is danger of a tragedy,” said The Thinking Machine, crustily. “We may be in time to avert it. There is just a chance. If I'd only known this an hour ago—even half an hour ago—it might have been stopped.”
The Thinking Machine was the first man out of the cab when it stopped, and Hatch and the detective followed quickly.
“Is Mr. St. George in his apartments?” asked the scientist of the elevator boy. ”

“ Then Hatch began real work on the story. First he saw the bank clerk, Victor Willis, who Miss Stanford had said loved Grace Field, and whom Hatch suspected Miss Stanford loved. He found Willis a grim, sullen faced young man of twenty-eight years, who would say nothing.
From that point Hatch worked vigorously for several hours. At the end of that time he had found out that on Wednesday, the day of Miss Field's disappearance, a veiled woman—probably Grace Field—had called at the bank and inquired for Willis. Later, Willis, urging necessity, had asked to be allowed the day off and left the bank. ”

“ George is in his studio he will come out of it to-night at thirty-two minutes past nine. He will be running, and may not wear either a hat or coat.”
“What?” and Hatch grinned, a weak, puzzled grin.
“You wait where he can't see you when he comes out,” the scientist went on. “When he goes he may leave the door open. If he does go on see if you find any trace of Miss Field, and then, on his return, meet him at the outer door, ask him what you please, and come to see me to-morrow morning. He will be out of his studio about twenty minutes.” ”

“ She is a beautiful woman, but not necessarily a woman of mentality; he is a great artist, eccentric, childish even in certain things. They were two natures totally opposed.
“These things I could see instantly. Mr. Hatch showed me the photograph and also the scrap of paper. At the time the scrap of paper meant nothing. As I pointed out, it might have no bearing at all, yet it made it necessary for me to know whose handwriting it was. If Willis's, it still might mean nothing; if St. George's, a great deal, because it showed a direct thread to him. ”

“ It was ten minutes to ten o'clock when Hatch left the building. Now he would see Miss Stanford and have her identify the gloves and the veil. He boarded a car and drew out and closely examined the gloves and veil. The gloves were tan, rather heavy, but small, and the veil was of some light, cobwebby material which he didn't know by name.
“If these are Grace Field's,” the reporter argued, to himself, “it means something. If they are not, I'm simply a burglar.”
There was a light in the Dorchester house where Miss Stanford lived, and the reporter rang the bell. A servant appeared. ”

“ Hatch considerably, brought the artist out of his rooms after he had been there closely for two days. I told Mr. Hatch that the artist would leave his rooms, if he were there, one night at 9:32, and told him to wait in the hall, then if he left the door open to enter the apartments and search for some trace of the girl. Mr. St. George did leave his apartments at the time I mentioned, and——”
“But why, how?” asked Hatch.
“There was one thing in the world that St. George loved with all his heart,” explained the scientist. “That was his picture. Every act of his life has demonstrated that. ”

“ George, who, of course, had found no fire. It showed that Miss Stanford suspected Willis, whom she loved, of the murder of Miss Field. Why? Because she had heard him threaten. He's a hare-brained young fool, anyway. What motive? Jealousy. Jealousy of what? He knew in some way that she had posed for a semi-nude picture, and that the man who painted it loved her. There is your jealousy. It explains Willis's every act.”
The Thinking Machine paused a moment, then went on:
“This conversation with Mr. Hatch made me believe Miss Stanford knew more than she was willing to tell. In what way? ”

“ Detective Mallory had nothing to say; it was all said. Both turned as if to go, but the reporter had two more questions.
“I suppose St. George's case is hopeless?”
“Absolutely. It will end in a few months with his death.”
“And Miss Field?”
“If she is not dead by this time she will recover. Wait a minute.” He went into the next room and they heard the telephone bell jingle. After a time he came out. “She will recover,” he said. “Good-afternoon.”
Wonderingly, Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, and Detective Mallory passed down the street together. ”

“ The girl faltered an instant.
“No,” she answered, finally.
Hatch studied her face a moment with cold eyes, then turned the scrap of paper over. The other side was blank. Staring down at it he veiled a glitter of anxious interest. ”

“ The Thinking Machine went on, “the exact condition of St. George—his mental condition particularly. Find out if Willis is at his office in the bank to-day, and, if possible, where and how he spent last night. That's all.”
“And Miss Stanford?” asked Hatch.
“Never mind her,” replied The Thinking Machine. “I may see her myself. These other things are of immediate consequence. The minute you satisfy yourself come back to me. Quickness on your part may prevent a tragedy.”
The reporter went away hurriedly. At four o'clock that afternoon he returned. The Thinking Machine greeted him ”

“ St. George.”
Detective Mallory was delighted. Here was something he could readily understand; a human being given over to his care; a tangible thing to put handcuffs on and hold. He immediately proceeded to put the handcuffs on.
“Any need of an ambulance?” he asked.
“No,” replied The Thinking Machine. “He'll be all right in half an hour.”
Gradually as reason came back Willis remembered. He turned his head at last and saw the inert bodies of St. George and Grace Field, the girl whom he had loved. ”

“ Mr. Hatch,” retorted the other, belligerently. “You might take occasion to see the handwriting of St. George, the artist, and see if that is his—also look at Willis's. Even if it were Willis's, however, it may mean nothing in connection with this.”
“But what could have happened to Miss Field?”
“Any of fifty things,” responded the other. “She might have fallen dead in the street and been removed to a hospital or undertaking establishment; she might have been arrested for shoplifting and given a wrong name; she might have gone mad and gone away; she might have eloped with another man ”

“ A friendship grew up between us, and we began rooming together. Each of us is alone in the East. She comes from the West, somewhere in Nevada, and I come from Quebec.
“Grace has never said much about herself, but I know that she had been in Boston a year or so before I met her. ”

“ Then Hatch told the story, beginning at the time when the picture was placed in the art museum, and continuing up to the point where he had seen Willis after finding the photograph and the scrap of paper. He had always found that it saved time to begin at the beginning with The Thinking Machine ”

“ It was evident that his condition was primarily due to the wounds on his head—two of which bled profusely. The chloroform had merely served to further deaden his mentality. The wounds were made with the butt of the revolver, evidently in the hands of the artist. Willis's eyes opened finally and he stared at the faces bending over him with uncomprehending eyes.
“What happened?” he asked.
“You're all right now,” was the scientist's assuring answer. “This man is your prisoner, Detective Mallory, for breaking and entering and for the attempted murder of Mr. ”