CHAPTER III
Faithfully, phonographically even, Hatch repeated to The ThinkingMachine the conversation he had had with Doctor Walpole, indicating onthe person of the eminent scientist the exact spot of the wound asDoctor Walpole had indicated it to him. The scientist listened withoutcomment to the recital, casually studying meanwhile the three crimsondrops on the glass.
"Every step I take forward is a step backward," the reporter declared inconclusion with a helpless grin. "Instead of showing that Dick Herbertmight not have stolen the plate I am proving conclusively that he wasthe thief--nailing it to him so hard that he can't possibly get out ofit." He was silent a moment. "If I keep on long enough," he addedglumly, "I'll hang him."
The Thinking Machine squinted at him aggressively.
"You still don't believe him guilty?" he asked.
"Why, I--I--I----" Hatch burst out savagely. "Damn it, I don't knowwhat I believe," he tapered off. "It's absolutely impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible, Mr. Hatch," snapped The Thinking Machineirritably. "The worst a problem can be is difficult, but all problemscan be solved as inevitably as that two and two make four--notsometimes, but all the time. Please don't say things are impossible. Itannoys me exceedingly."
Hatch stared at his distinguished friend and smiled whimsically. He wasalso annoyed exceedingly on his own private, individual account--theannoyance that comes from irresistibly butting into immovable facts.
"Doctor Walpole's statement," The Thinking Machine went on after amoment, "makes this particular problem ludicrously simple. Two pointsalone show conclusively that Mr. Herbert was not the man in theautomobile. I shall reach the third myself."
Hatch didn't say anything. The English language is singularly inadequateat times, and if he had spoken he would have had to invent a phraseologyto convey even a faint glimmer of what he really thought.
"Now, Mr. Hatch," resumed the scientist, quite casually, "I understandyou graduated from Harvard in ninety-eight. Yes? Well, Herbert was aclassmate of yours there. Please obtain for me one of the printed listsof students who were in Harvard that year--a complete list."
"I have one at home," said the reporter.
"Get it, please, immediately, and return here," instructed thescientist.
Hatch went out and The Thinking Machine disappeared into his laboratory.He remained there for one hour and forty-seven minutes by the clock.When he came out he found the reporter sitting in the reception-roomagain, holding his head. The scientist's face was as blankly inscrutableas ever.
"Here is the list," said Hatch as he handed it over.
The Thinking Machine took it in his long, slender fingers and turned twoor three leaves. Finally he stopped and ran a finger down one page.
"Ah," he exclaimed at last. "I thought so."
"Thought what?" asked Hatch curiously.
"I'm going out to see Mr. Meredith now," remarked The Thinking Machineirrelevantly. "Come along. Have you met him?"
"No."
Mr. Meredith had read the newspaper accounts of the arrest of DickHerbert and the seizure of the gold plate and jewels; he had eventaunted his charming daughter with it in a fatherly sort of a way. Shewas weeping, weeping her heart out over this latest proof of the perfidyand loathsomeness of the man she loved. Incidentally, it may bementioned here that the astute Mr. Meredith was not aware of anyelopement plot--either the first or second.
When a card bearing the name of Mr. Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen washanded to Mr. Meredith he went wonderingly into the reception-room.There was a pause as the scientist and Mr. Meredith mentally sized eachother up; then introductions--and The Thinking Machine came down tobusiness abruptly, as always.
"May I ask, Mr. Meredith," he began, "how many sons you have?"
"One," replied Mr. Meredith, puzzled.
"May I ask his present address?" went on the scientist.
Mr. Meredith studied the belligerent eyes of his caller and wonderedwhat business it was of his, for Mr. Meredith was a belligerent sort ofa person himself.
"May I ask," he inquired with pronounced emphasis on the personalpronoun, "why you want to know?"
Hatch rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was wondering what would happento him when the cyclone struck.
"It may save him and you a great deal of annoyance if you will give mehis address," said The Thinking Machine. "I desire to communicate withhim immediately on a matter of the utmost importance--a purely personalmatter."
"Personal matter?" repeated Mr. Meredith. "Your abruptness and manner,sir, were not calculated to invite confidence."
The Thinking Machine bowed gravely.
"May I ask your son's address?" he repeated.
Mr. Meredith considered the matter at some length and finally arrived atthe conclusion that he might ask.
"He is in South America at present--Buenos Ayres," he replied.
"What?" exclaimed The Thinking Machine so suddenly that both Hatch andMr. Meredith started a little. "What?" he repeated, and wrinklessuddenly appeared in the domelike brow.
"I said he was in South America--Buenos Ayres," repeated Mr. Meredithstiffly, but a little awed. "A letter or cable to him in care of theAmerican Consul at Buenos Ayres will reach him promptly."
The Thinking Machine's narrow eyes were screwed down to the disappearingpoint, the slender white fingers were twiddled jerkily, the corrugationsremained in his brow.
"How long has Mr. Meredith been there?" he asked at last.
"Three months."
"Do you _know_ he _is_ there?"
Mr. Meredith started to say something and swallowed it with an effort.
"I know it positively, yes," he replied. "I received this letter datedthe second from him three days ago, and to-day I received acable-dispatch forwarded to me here from Baltimore."
"Are you positive the letter is in your son's handwriting?"
Mr. Meredith almost choked in mingled bewilderment and resentment at thequestion and the manner of its asking.
"I am positive, yes," he replied at last, preserving his tone of dignitywith a perceptible effort. He noted the inscrutable face of his callerand saw the corrugations in the brow suddenly swept away. "What businessof yours is it, anyway?" blazed Mr. Meredith suddenly.
"May I ask where _you_ were last Thursday night?" went on the even,steady voice.
"It's no business of yours," Mr. Meredith blurted. "I was in Baltimore."
"Can you prove it in a court of law?"
"Prove it? Of course I can prove it!" Mr. Meredith was fairly bellowingat his impassive interrogator. "But it's nobody's business."
"If you _can_ prove it, Mr. Meredith," remarked The Thinking Machinequietly, coldly, "you had best make your arrangements to do so, because,believe me, it may be necessary to save you from a charge of havingstolen the Randolph gold plate on last Thursday night at the maskedball. Good-day, sir."