LITMIR.BIZ

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details!” he interrupted once.

      The story was complete from the moment Curtis jumped out of the car until the return to the hotel of Curtis and Reid. There the narrator stopped.

      “Mr. Curtis, why did you try to induce Dr. Leonard to give up the knife to you?” asked The Thinking Machine, finally.

      “Because—well, because—” He faltered, flushed and stopped.

      “Because you were afraid it would bring the crime home to you?” asked the scientist.

      “I didn’t know what might happen,” was the response.

      “Is it your knife?”

      Again the tell-tale flush overspread Curtis’s face.

      “No,” he said, flatly.

      “Is it Reid’s knife?”

      “Oh, no,” he said, quickly.

      “You were in love with Miss Melrose?”

      “Yes,” was the steady reply.

      “Had she ever refused to marry you?”

      “I had never asked her.”

      “Why?”

      “Is this a third degree?” demanded Curtis, angrily, and he arose. “Am I a prisoner?”

      “Not at all,” said The Thinking Machine, quietly. “You may be made a prisoner, though, on what you said while unconscious. I am merely trying to help you.”

      Curtis sank down in a chair with his head in his hands and remained motionless for several minutes. At last he looked up.

      “I’ll answer your questions,” he said.

      “Why did you never ask Miss Melrose to marry you?”

      “Because—well, because I understood another man, Donald MacLean, was as in love with her, and she might have loved him. I understood she would have married him had it not been that by doing so she would have caused his disinheritance. MacLean is now in Boston.”

      “Ah!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine.

      “Your friend Reid didn’t happen to be in love with her, too, did he?”

      “Oh, no,” was the reply. “Reid came here hoping to win the love of Miss Dow, a society girl. I came with him.”

      “Miss Dow?” asked Hatch, quickly. “The girl who eloped last night with Morgan Mason?”

      “Yes,” replied Curtis. “That elopement and this—crime have put Reid almost in as bad a condition as I am.”

      “What elopement?” asked The Thinking Machine.

      Hatch explained how Mason had procured a marriage license, how Miss Dow and Mason had met at the Monarch Inn—where Miss Melrose must have been killed according to all stories—how Miss Dow had written to her parents from there of the elopement and then of their disappearance. The Thinking Machine listened, but without apparent interest.

      “Have you such a knife as was used to kill Miss Melrose?” he asked at the end.

      “No.”

      “Did you ever have such a knife?”

      “Well, once.”

      “Where did you carry it when it was not in your auto kit?”

      “In my lower coat pocket.”

      “By the way, what kind of looking woman was Miss Melrose?”

      “One of the most beautiful women I ever met,” said Curtis with a certain enthusiasm. “Of ordinary height, superb figure—a woman who would attract attention anywhere.”

      “I believe she wore a veil and an automobile mask at the time she was killed?”

      “Yes. They covered all her face except her chin.”

      “Could she, wearing an automobile mask, see either side of herself without turning?” asked The Thinking Machine, pointedly. “Had you intended to stab her, say while the car was in motion and had the knife in your hand, even in daylight, could she have seen it without turning her head? Or, if she had had the knife, could you have seen it?”

      Curtis shuddered a little.

      “No, I don’t believe so.”

      “Was she blonde or brunette?”

      “Blonde, with great clouds of golden hair,” said Curtis, and again there was admiration in his tone.

      “Golden hair?” Hatch repeated. “I understood Medical Examiner Francis to say she had dark hair?”

      “No, golden hair,” was the positive reply.

      “Did you see the body, Mr. Hatch?” asked the scientist.

      “No. None of us saw it. Dr. Francis makes that a rule.”

      The Thinking Machine arose, excused himself and passed into another room. They heard the telephone bell ring and then some one closed the door connecting the two rooms. When the scientist returned he went straight to a point which Hatch had impatiently awaited.

      “What happened to you this afternoon in Winter Street?”

      Curtis had retained his composure well up to this point; now he became uneasy again. Quick pallor on his face was succeeded by a flush which crept up to the roots of his hair.

      “I’ve been drinking too much,” he said at last. “That and this thing have completely unnerved me. I am afraid I was not myself.”

      “What did you think you saw?” insisted The Thinking Machine.

      “I went into a store for something. I’ve forgotten what now. I know there was a great crowd of women—they were all about me. There I saw—” He stopped and was silent for a moment. “There I saw,” he went on with an effort, “a woman—just a glimpse of her, over the heads of the others in the store—and—”

      “And what?” insisted The Thinking Machine.

      “At the moment I would have sworn it was Marguerite Melrose,” was the reply.

      “Of course you know you were mistaken?”

      “I know it now,” said Curtis. “It was a chance resemblance, but the effect on me was awful. I ran out of there shrieking—it seemed to me. Then I found myself here.”

      “And you don’t know what you said or did from that time until the present?” asked the scientist, curiously.

      “No, except in a hazy sort of way.”

      After awhile Martha, the scientist’s aged servant, appeared in the doorway.

      “Mr. Mallory and a gentleman, sir.”

      “Let them come in,” said The Thinking Machine. “Mr. Curtis,” and he turned to him gravely, “Mr. Reid is here. I sent for him as if at your request to ask him two questions. If he answers those questions, as I believe he will, I can demonstrate that you are not guilty of and have no connection with the murder of Miss Melrose. Let me ask these questions, without any hint or remark from you as to what the answer must be. Are you willing?”

      “I am,” replied Curtis. His face was white, but his voice was firm.

      Detective Mallory, whom Curtis didn’t know, and Charles Reid entered the room. Both looked about curiously. Mallory nodded brusquely at Hatch. Reid looked at Curtis and Curtis looked away.

      “Mr. Reid,” said The Thinking Machine without any preliminary, “Mr. Curtis tells me that the knife used to kill Miss Melrose was your property. Is that so?” he demanded quickly, as Curtis faced about wonderingly.

      “No,” thundered Reid fiercely.

      “Is

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