The Thinking Machine reached over to the shelf, took a book, looked at it a moment, then went on:
“The first question to determine positively is: Who hated Weldon Henley sufficiently to desire his death? You say he is a successful man in the Street. Therefore there is a possibility that some enemy there is at the bottom of the affair, yet it seems hardly probable. If by his operations Mr. Henley ever happened to wreck another man’s fortune find this man and find out all about him. He may be the man. There will be innumerable questions arising from this line of inquiry to a man of your resources. Leave none of them unanswered.
“On the other hand there is Henley’s love affair. Had he a rival who might desire his death? Had he any rival? If so, find out all about him. He may be the man who planned all this. Here, too, there will be questions arising which demand answers. Answer then—all of them—fully and clearly before you see me again.
“Was Henley ever a party to a liason of any kind? Find that out, too. A vengeful woman or a discarded sweetheart of a vengeful woman, you know, will go to any extreme. The rumor of his engagement to Miss—Miss—”
“Miss Lipscomb,” Hatch supplied.
“The rumor of his engagement to Miss Lipscomb might have caused a woman whom he had once been interested in or who was once interested in him to attempt his life. The subtler murders—that is, the ones which are most attractive as problems—are nearly always the work of a cunning woman. I know nothing about women myself,” he hastened to explain; “But Lombroso has taken that attitude. Therefore, see if there is a woman.”
Most of these points Hatch had previously seen—seen with the unerring eye of a clever newspaper reporter—yet there were several which had not occurred to him. He nodded his understanding.
“Now the center of the affair, of course,” The Thinking Machine continued, “is the apartment house where Henley lives. The person who attempted his life either lives there of has ready access to the place, and frequently spends the night there. This is a vital question for you to answer. I am leaving all this to you because you know better how to do these things than I do. That’s all, I think. When these things are all learned come back to me.”
The Thinking Machine arose as if the interview were at an end, and Hatch also arose, reluctantly. An idea was beginning to dawn in his mind.
“Does there occur to you that there is any connection whatever between Henley and Miss Regnier?” he asked.
“It is possible,” was the reply. “I had thought of that. If there is a connection it is not apparent yet.”
“Then how—how was it she—she was killed, or killed herself, whichever may be true, and—”
“The attempt to kill Henley killed her. That’s all I can say now.”
“That all?” asked Hatch, after a pause.
“No. Warn Mr. Henley immediately that he is in grave danger. Remember the person who has planned this will probably go to any extreme. I don’t know Mr. Henley, of course, but from the fact that he always had a light at night I gather that he is a timid sort of man—not necessarily a coward, but a man lacking in stamina—therefore, one who might better disappear for a week or so until the mystery is cleared up. Above all, impress upon him the importance of the warning.”
The Thinking Machine opened his pocketbook and took from it the scarlet thread which he had picked from the rope of the flagpole.
“Here, I believe, is the real clue to the problem,” he explained to Hatch. “What does it seem to be?”
Hatch examined it closely.
“I should say a strand from a Turkish bath robe,” was his final judgement.
“Possibly. Ask some cloth expert what he makes of it, then if it sounds promising look into it. Find out if by any possibility it can be any part of any garment worn by any person in the apartment house.”
“But it’s so slight—” Hatch began.
“I know,” the other interrupted, tartly. “It’s slight, but I believe it is a part of the wearing apparel of the person, man or woman, who has four times attempted to kill Mr. Henley and who did kill the girl. Therefore, it is important.”
Hatch looked at him quickly.
“Well, how—in what manner—did it come where you found it?”
“Simple enough,” said the scientist. “It is a wonder that there were not more pieces of it—that’s all.”
Perplexed by his instructions. But confident of results, Hatch left The Thinking Machine. What possible connection could this tiny bit of scarlet thread, found on a flagpole, have with one shutting off the gas in Henley’s rooms? How did anyone go into Henley’s rooms to shut off the gas? How was it Miss Regnier was dead? What was the manner of her death?
A cloth expert in a great department store turned his knowledge on the tiny bit of scarlet for the illumination of Hatch, but he could go no further than to say that it seemed to be part of a Turkish bath robe.
“Man or woman’s?” asked Hatch.
“The material from which bath robes are made is the same for both men and women,” was the reply. “I can say nothing else. Of course there’s not enough of it to even guess at the pattern of the robe.”
Then Hatch went to the financial district and was ushered into the office of Weldon Henley, a slender, handsome man of thirty-two or three years, pallid of face and nervous in manner. He still showed the effect of the gas poisoning, and there was even a trace of a furtive fear—fear of something, he himself didn’t know what—in his actions.
Henley talked freely to the newspaper man of certain things, but of other things he was resentfully reticent. He admitted his engagement to Miss Lipscomb, and finally even admitted that Miss Lipscomb’s hand had been sought by another man, Regnault Cabell, formerly of Virginia.
“Could you give me his address?” asked Hatch.
“He lives in the same apartment house with me—two floors above,” was the reply.
Hatch was startled; startled more than he would have cared to admit.
“Are you on friendly terms with him?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said Henley. “I won’t say anything further about this matter. It would be unwise for obvious reasons.”
“I suppose you consider that this turning on of the gas was an attempt on your life?”
“I can’t suppose anything else.”
Hatch studied the pallid face closely as he asked the next question.
“Do you know Miss Regnier was found dead today?”
“Dead?” exclaimed the other, and he arose. “Who—what—who is she?”
It seemed a distinct effort for him to regain control of himself.
The reporter detailed then the circumstances of the finding of the girl’s body, and the broker listened without comment. From that time forward all the reporter’s questions were either parried or else met with a flat refusal to answer. Finally Hatch repeated to him the warning which he had from The Thinking Machine, and feeling that he had accomplished little, went away.
At eight o’clock that night—a night of complete darkness—Henley was found unconscious, lying in a little used walk in the Common. There was a bullet hole through his left shoulder, and he was bleeding profusely. He was removed to the hospital, where he regained consciousness for just a moment.
“Who shot you?” he was asked.
“None of your business,” he replied, and lapsed into unconsciousness.
IV