LITMIR.BIZ

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until this vision of death, last Tuesday night you say?”

      “That was the first.”

      “How do you know the murder is to take place at any given time—that is next week, as you say?”

      “That is the information Adhem Singh gave me,” was the reply. “He can read the visions—they mean more to him than—”

      “In other words, he makes it a profession?” interrupted the scientist.

      “Yes.”

      “Go on.”

      “The horror of the thing impressed me so—both of us—that he has at my request twice invoked the vision since that night. He, like you, wanted to know when it would happen. There is a calendar by weeks in my study; that is, only one week is shown on it at a time. The last time the vision appeared he noted this calendar. The week was that beginning next Sunday, the 21st of this month. The only conclusion we could reach was it would happen during that week.”

      The Thinking Machine arose and paced back and forth across the room deeply thoughtful. At last he stopped before his visitor.

      “It’s perfectly amazing,” he commented emphatically. “It approaches nearer to the unbelievable than anything I have ever heard of.”

      Varick’s response was a look that was almost grateful.

      “You believe it impossible then?” he asked, eagerly.

      “Nothing is impossible,” declared the other aggressively. “Now, Mr. Varick, you are firmly convinced that what you saw was prophetic? That you will die in that manner, in that place?”

      “I can’t believe anything else—I can’t,” was the response.

      “And you have no idea of the identity of the murderer-to-be, if I may use that phrase?”

      “Not the slightest. The figure was wholly unfamiliar to me.”

      “And you know—you know—that the room you saw in the crystal was yours?”

      “I know that absolutely. Rugs, furniture, mantel, books, everything was mine.”

      The Thinking Machine was again silent for a time.

      “In that event,” he said at last, “the affair is perfectly simple. Will you place yourself in my hands and obey my directions implicitly?”

      “Yes.” There was an eager, hopeful note in Varick’s voice now.

      “I am going to try to disarrange the affairs of Fate a little bit,” explained the scientist gravely. “I don’t know what will happen but it will be interesting to try to throw the inevitable, the pre-ordained I might say, out of gear, won’t it?”

      With a quizzical, grim expression about his thin lips The Thinking Machine went to the telephone in an adjoining room and called some one. Varick heard neither the name nor what was said, merely the mumble of the irritable voice. He glanced up as the scientist returned.

      “Have you any servants—a valet for instance?” asked the scientist.

      “Yes, I have an aged servant, a valet, but he is now in France, I gave him a little vacation. I really don’t need one now as I live in an apartment house—almost a hotel.”

      “I don’t suppose you happen to have three or four thousand dollars in your pocket?”

      “No, not so much as that,” was the puzzled reply. “If it’s your fee—”

      “I never accept fees,” interrupted the scientist. “I interest myself in affairs like these because I like them. They are good mental exercise. Please draw a cheque for, say four thousand dollars, to Hutchinson Hatch.”

      “Who is he?” asked Varick. There was no reply. The cheque was drawn and handed over without further comment.

      It was fifteen or twenty minutes later that a cab pulled up in front of the house. Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, and another man whom he introduced as Philip Byrne were ushered in. As Hatch shook hands with Varick The Thinking Machine compared them mentally. They were relatively of the same size and he bobbed his head as if satisfied.

      “Now, Mr. Hatch,” he instructed, “take this cheque and get it cashed immediately, then return here. Not a word to anybody.”

      Hatch went out and Byrne discussed politics with Varick until he returned with the money. The Thinking Machine thrust the bills into Byrne’s hand and he counted it, afterward stowing it away in a pocket.

      “Now, Mr. Varick, the keys to your apartment, please,” asked the scientist.

      They were handed over and he placed them in his pocket. Then he turned to Varick.

      “From this time on,” he said, “your name is John Smith. You are going on a trip, beginning immediately, with Mr. Byrne here. You are not to send a letter, a postal, a telegram or a package to anyone; you are to buy nothing, you are to write no checks, you are not to speak to or recognize anyone, you are not to telephone or attempt in any manner to communicate with anyone, not even me. You are to obey Mr. Byrne in everything he says.”

      Varick’s eyes had grown wider and wider as he listened.

      “But my affairs—my business?” he protested.

      “It is a matter of your life or death,” said The Thinking Machine shortly.

      For a moment Varick wavered a little. He felt that he was being treated like a child.

      “As you say,” he said finally.

      “Now, Mr. Byrne,” continued the scientist, “you heard those instructions. It is your duty to enforce them. You must lose this man and yourself. Take him away somewhere to another place. There is enough money there for ordinary purposes. When you learn that there has been an arrest in connection with a certain threat against Mr. Varick, come back to Boston—to me—and bring him. That’s all.”

      Mr. Byrne arose with a business like air.

      “Come on, Mr. Smith,” he commanded.

      Varick followed him out of the room.

      * * * *

      Here was a table littered with books and papers, there a chair, yonder a shadowy mantel— A door opened and a man entered the room—moved about the study aimlessly for a time as if deeply troubled, then dropped into a chair at the desk—made some hopeless gesture with his hands and leaned forward on the desk with his head on his arms—another figure in the room—knife in his hand—creeping stealthily toward the unconscious figure in the chair with the knife raised—the unknown crept on, on, on—

      There was a blinding flash, a gush of flame and smoke, a sharp click, and through the fog came the unexcited voice of Hutchinson Hatch, reporter.

      “Stay right where you are, please.”

      “That ought to be a good picture,” said The Thinking Machine.

      The smoke cleared and he saw Adhem Singh standing watching with deep concern a revolver in the hand of Hatch, who had suddenly arisen from the desk in Varick’s room. The Thinking Machine rubbed his hands briskly.

      “Ah, I thought it was you,” he said to the crystal gazer. “Put down the knife, please. That’s right. It seems a little bold to have interfered with what was to be like this, but you wanted too much detail, Mr. Singh. You might have murdered your friend if you hadn’t gone into so much trivial theatrics.”

      “I suppose I am a prisoner?” asked the crystal gazer.

      “You are,” The Thinking Machine assured him cheerfully. “You are charged with the attempted murder of Mr. Varick. Your wife will be a prisoner in another half hour with all those who were with you in the conspiracy.”

      He turned to Hatch, who was smiling broadly. The reporter was thinking of that wonderful flash-light photograph in the camera

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