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there any question about the letter being in her handwriting?”

      “Not at all,” replied the maid, positively. “It’s perfectly natural,” she concluded.

      “But—” Hatch began, then he stopped.

      For one fleeting instant he was tempted to tell the maid that the man whom the family had supposed was Miss Dow’s husband was lying unconscious at a farmhouse not a great way from the Monarch Inn, and that there was no trace of Miss Dow. Now this letter! His head whirled when he thought of it.

      “Is there any question but that Miss Dow did elope with Mr. Mason and not some other man?” he asked.

      “It was Mr. Mason all right,” the girl responded. “I knew there was to be an elopement and helped arrange for Miss Dow to go,” she added, confidently. “It was Mr. Mason, I know.”

      Then Hatch rushed away and telephoned The Thinking Machine. He simply couldn’t hold this latest development until he saw him again.

      “We’ve made a mistake,” he bellowed through the telephone.

      “What’s that?” demanded The Thinking Machine, aggressively.

      “Miss Dow is in Chicago with her husband—family has received a letter from her—that man out there with the smashed head can’t be Mason.” The reporter explained hurriedly.

      “Dear me, dear me!” said The Thinking Machine over the wire. And again: “Dear me!”

      “Her maid told me all about it,” Hatch rushed on, “that is, all about her aiding Miss Dow to elope, and all that. Must be some mistake.”

      “Dear me!” again came in the voice of The Thinking Machine. Then: “Is Miss Dow a blonde or brunette?”

      The irrelevancy of the question caused Hatch to smile in spite of himself.

      “A brunette,” he answered. “A pronounced brunette.”

      “Then,” said The Thinking Machine, as if this were merely dependent upon or a part of the blonde or brunette proposition, “get immediately a picture of Mason somewhere—I suppose you can—go out and see that man with the smashed head and see if it is Mason. Let me know by telephone.”

      “All right,” said Hatch, rather hopelessly. “But it is impossible—”

      “Don’t say that,” snapped The Thinking Machine. “Don’t say that,” he repeated, angrily. “It annoys me exceedingly.”

      It was nearly ten o’clock that night when Hatch again telephoned The Thinking Machine. He had found a photograph, he had seen the man with the smashed head. They were the same. He so informed The Thinking Machine.

      “Ah,” said that individual, quietly. “Did you find out about any gift that Reid might have made to Miss Dow?” he asked.

      “Yes, a monogram belt buckle of gold,” was the reply.

      Hatch was over his head and knew it. He was finding out things and answering questions which, by the wildest stretch of his imagination, he could not bring to bear on the matter in hand—the mystery surrounding the murder of Marguerite Melrose, an actress.

      “Meet me at my place here at one o’clock day after tomorrow,” instructed The Thinking Machine. “Publish as little as you can of this matter until you see me. It’s extraordinary—perfectly extraordinary. Good-bye.”

      That was all. Hatch groped hopelessly through the tangle, seeking one fact that he could grasp. Then it occurred to him that he had never ascertained when Reid intended to return West, and he went to the Hotel Teutonic for this purpose. The clerk informed him that Reid was to start in a couple of days. Reid had hardly left his room since Curtis was locked up.

      Precisely at one o’clock on the second day following, as directed by The Thinking Machine, Hatch appeared and was ushered in. The Thinking Machine was bowed over a retort in his laboratory, and he looked up at the reporter with a question in his eyes.

      “Oh, yes,” he said, as if recollecting for the first time the purpose of the visit. “Oh, yes.”

      He led the way to the reception room and gave instructions to Martha to admit whoever inquired for him; then he sat down and leaned back in his chair. After awhile the bell rang and two men were shown in. One was Charles Reid; the other a detective whom Hatch knew.

      “Ah! Mr. Reid,” said The Thinking Machine. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, but there were some questions I wanted to ask before you went away. If you’ll wait just a moment.”

      Reid bowed and took a seat.

      “Is he under arrest?” Hatch inquired of the detective, aside.

      “Oh, no,” was the reply. “Oh, no. Detective Mallory told me to ask him to come up. I don’t know what for.”

      After awhile the bell rang again. Then Hatch heard Detective Mallory’s voice in the hall and the rustle of skirts; then the voice of another man. Mallory appeared at the door after a moment; behind him came two veiled women and a man who was a stranger to Hatch.

      “I’m going to make a request, Mr. Mallory,” said The Thinking Machine. “I know it will be a cause of pleasure to Mr. Reid. It is that you release Mr. Curtis, who is charged with the murder of Miss Melrose.”

      “Why?” demanded Mallory, quickly. Hatch and Reid stared at the scientist curiously.

      “This,” said The Thinking Machine.

      The two women simultaneously removed their veils.

      One was Miss Marguerite Melrose.

      VI

      “Miss Melrose that was,” explained The Thinking Machine, “now Mrs. Donald MacLean. This, gentlemen, is her husband. This other young woman is Miss Dow’s maid. Together I believe we will be able to throw some light on the death of the young woman who was found in Mr. Curtis’s automobile.”

      Stupefied with amazement, Hatch stared at the woman whose reported murder had startled and puzzled the entire country. Reid had shown only slight emotion—an emotion of a kind hard to read. Finally he advanced to Miss Melrose, or Mrs. MacLean, with outstretched hand.

      “Marguerite,” he said.

      The girl looked deeply into his eyes, then took the proffered hand.

      “And Jack Curtis?” she asked.

      “If Detective Mallory will have him brought here we can immediately end his connection with this case so far as your murder is concerned,” said The Thinking Machine.

      “Who—who was murdered then?” asked Hatch.

      “A little circumstantial development is necessary to show,” replied The Thinking Machine.

      Detective Mallory retired into another room and telephoned to have Curtis brought up. On his assurance that there had been a mistake which he would explain later, Curtis set out from his cell with a detective and within a few minutes appeared in the room, wonderingly.

      One look at Marguerite and he was beside her, gripping her hand. For a time he didn’t speak; it was not necessary. Then the actress, with flushed face, indicated MacLean, who had stood quietly by, an interested but silent spectator.

      “My husband, Jack,” she said.

      Quick comprehension swept over Curtis and he looked from one to another. Then he approached MacLean with outstretched hand.

      “I congratulate you,” he said, with deep feeling. “Make her happy.”

      Reid had stood unobserved meanwhile. Hatch’s glance traveled from one to another of the persons in the room. He was seeking to explain that expression on Reid’s face, vainly thus far. There was a little pause as Reid and Curtis came face to face, but neither spoke.

      “Now, please, what does it all mean?”

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