“I have had one for many years. What is all this, anyway? How did you get in this house? What right had you here?”
“Is Miss Devan in the house tonight?” asked The Thinking Machine, entirely disregarding the other’s questions.
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“You haven’t seen her, of course?”
“Certainly not.”
“And you came here secretly without her knowledge?”
Stockton shrugged his shoulders and was silent. The Thinking Machine raised himself on the chair on which he had been sitting and squinted steadily into Stockton’s eyes. When he spoke it was to Hatch, but his gaze did not waver.
“Arouse the servants, find where Miss Devan’s room is, and see if anything has happened to her,” he directed.
“I think that will be unwise,” broke in Stockton quickly.
“Why?”
“If I may put it on personal grounds,” said Stockton, “I would ask as a favor that you do not make known my visit here, or your own for that matter, to Miss Devan.”
There was a certain uneasiness in the man’s attitude, a certain eagerness to keep things away from Miss Devan that spurred Hatch to instant action. He went out of the room hurriedly and ten minutes later Miss Devan, who had dressed quickly, came into the room with him. The servants stood outside in the hall, all curiosity. The closed door barred them from knowledge of what was happening.
There was a little dramatic pause as Miss Devan entered and Stockton arose from his seat. The Thinking Machine glanced from one to the other. He noted the pallor of the girl’s face and the frank embarrassment of Stockton.
“What is it?” asked Miss Devan, and her voice trembled a little. “Why are you all here? What has happened?”
“Mr. Stockton came here tonight,” The Thinking Machine began quietly, “to remove the contents from the locked vault in the cellar. He came without your knowledge and found us ahead of him. Mr. Hatch and myself are here in the course of our inquiry into the matter which you placed in my hands. We also came without your knowledge. I considered this best. Mr. Stockton was very anxious that his visit should be kept from you. Have you anything to say now?”
The girl turned on Stockton with magnificent scorn. Accusation was in her very attitude. Her small hand was pointed directly at Stockton and into his face there came a strange emotion, which he struggled to repress.
“Murderer! Thief!” the girl almost hissed.
“Do you know why he came?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“He came to rob the vault, as you said,” said the girl, fiercely. “It was because my father would not give him the secret of his last invention that this man killed him. How he compelled him to write that letter I don’t know.”
“Elizabeth, for God’s sake what are you saying?” asked Stockton with ashen face.
“His greed is so great that he wanted all of my father’s estate,” the girl went on impetuously. “He was not content that I should get even a small part of it.”
“Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” said Stockton, as he leaned forward with his head in his hands.
“What do you know about this secret vault?” asked the scientist.
“I—I—have always thought there was a secret vault in the cellar,” the girl explained. “I may say I know there was one because those things my father took the greatest care of were always disposed of by him somewhere in the house. I can imagine no other place than the cellar.”
There was a long pause. The girl stood rigid, staring down at the bowed figure of Stockton with not a gleam of pity in her face. Hatch caught the expression and it occurred to him for the first time that Miss Devan was vindictive. He was more convinced than ever that there had been some long-standing feud between these two. The Thinking Machine broke the long silence.
“Do you happen to know, Miss Devan, that page seven of the Bible which you found hidden in Mr. Stockton’s place is missing?”
“I didn’t notice,” said the girl.
Stockton had arisen with the words and now stood with white face and listening intently.
“Did you ever happen to see a page seven in that Bible?” the scientist asked.
“I don’t recall.”
“What were you doing in my rooms?” demanded Stockton of the girl.
“Why did you tear out page seven?” asked The Thinking Machine.
Stockton thought the question was addressed to him and turned to answer. Then he saw it was unmistakably a question to Miss Devan and turned again to her.
“I didn’t tear it out,” exclaimed Miss Devan. “I never saw it. I don’t know what you mean.”
The Thinking Machine made an impatient gesture with his hands; his next question was to Stockton.
“Have you a sample of your father’s handwriting?’”
“Several,” said Stockton. “Here are three or four letters from him.”
Miss Devan gasped a little as if startled and Stockton produced the letters and handed them to The Thinking Machine. The latter glanced over two of them.
“I thought, Miss Devan, you said your father always dictated his letters to you?”
“I did say so,” said the girl. “I didn’t know of the existence of these.”
“May I have these?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“Yes. They are of no consequence.”
“Now let’s see what is in the secret vault,” the scientist went on.
He arose and led the way again into the cellar, lighting his path with the electric bulb. Stockton followed immediately behind, then came Miss Devan, her white dressing gown trailing mystically in the dim light, and last came Hatch. The Thinking Machine went straight to that spot where he and Hatch had been when Stockton had fired at them. Again the rays of the light revealed the tiny door set into the wall of the cellar. The door opened readily at his touch; the small vault was empty.
Intent on his examination of this, The Thinking Machine was oblivious for a moment to what was happening. Suddenly there came again a pistol shot, followed instantly by a woman’s scream.
“My God, he’s killed himself. He’s killed himself.”
It was Miss Devan’s voice.
V
When The Thinking Machine flashed his light back into the gloom of the cellar, he saw Miss Devan and Hatch leaning over the prostrate figure of John Stockton. The latter’s face was perfectly white save just at the edge of the hair, where there was a trickle of red. In his right hand he clasped a revolver.
“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed the scientist. “What is it?’”
“Stockton shot himself,” said Hatch, and there was excitement in his tone.
On his knees the scientist made a hurried examination of the wounded man, then suddenly—it may have been inadvertently—he flashed the light in the face of Miss Devan.
“Where were you?” he demanded quickly.
“Just behind him,” said the girl. “Will he die? Is it fatal?”
“Hopeless,” said the scientist. “Let’s get him upstairs.”
The unconscious man was lifted and with Hatch leading was again taken to the room which they had left only a few minutes before. Hatch stood