President Fraser was removed to his home in a dangerous condition. His advanced age did not withstand the shock. Now alternately he raved and muttered incoherently, and the old eyes were wide, staring fearfully always. There was a consultation between The Thinking Machine and West after the removal of President Fraser, and the result was another hurried meeting of the board of directors. At that meeting West was placed, temporarily, in command. The police, of course, had been informed of the matter, but no arrest was probable.
Immediately after The Thinking Machine left the bank Hatch appeared and inquired for him. From the bank he went to the home of the scientist. There Professor Van Dusen was bending over a retort, busy with some problem.
"Well?" he demanded, as he glanced up.
"West told the truth," began Hatch. "Neither he nor any member of his family uses perfume; he has few outside acquaintances, is regular in his habits, but is a man of considerable wealth, it appears."
"What is his salary at the bank?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"Fifteen thousand a year," said the reporter. "But he must have a large fortune. He lives like a millionaire."
"He couldn't do that on fifteen thousand dollars a year," mused the scientist. "Did he inherit any money?"
"No," was the reply. "He started as a clerk in the bank and has made himself what he is."
"That means speculation," said The Thinking Machine. "You can't save a fortune from a salary, even fifteen thousand dollars a year. Now, Mr. Hatch, find out for me all about his business connections. His source of income particularly I would like to know. Also whether or not he has recently sought to borrow or has received a large sum of money; if he got it and what he did with it. He says he has not sought such a sum. Perhaps he told the truth."
"Yes, and about Miss Clarke----"
"Yes; what about her?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"She occupies a little room in a boarding-house for women in an excellent district," the reporter explained. "She has no friends who call there, at any rate. Occasionally, however, she goes out at night and remains late."
"The perfume?" asked the scientist.
"She uses a perfume, the housekeeper tells me, but she doesn't recall just what kind it is--so many of the young women in the house use it. So I went to her room and looked. There was no perfume there. Her room was considerably disarranged, which seemed to astonish the housekeeper, who declared that she had carefully arranged it about nine o'clock. It was two when I was there."
"How was it disarranged?" asked the scientist.
"The couch cover was jerked awry and the pillows tumbled down, for one thing," said the reporter. "I didn't notice any further."
The Thinking Machine relapsed into silence. "What happened at the bank?" inquired Hatch. Briefly the scientist related the facts leading up to the search, the search itself and its startling result. The reporter whistled.
"Do you think Fraser had anything to do with it?"
"Run out and find out those other things about West," said The Thinking Machine, evasively. "Come back here to-night. It doesn't matter what time."
"But who do you think committed the crime?" insisted the newspaper man.
"I may be able to tell you when you return."
For the time being The Thinking Machine seemed to forget the bank robbery, being busy in his tiny laboratory. He was aroused from his labors by the ringing of the telephone bell.
"Hello," he called. "Yes, Van Dusen. No, I can't come down to the bank now. What is it? Oh, it has disappeared? When? Too bad! How's Mr. Fraser? Still unconscious? Too bad! I'll see you to-morrow."
The scientist was still engrossed in some delicate chemical work just after eight o'clock that evening when Martha, his housekeeper and maid of all work, entered.
"Professor," she said, "there's a lady to see you."
"Name?" he asked, without turning.
"She didn't give it, sir."
"There in a moment."
He finished the test he had under way, then left the little laboratory and went into the hall leading to the sitting-room, where unprivileged callers awaited his pleasure. He sniffed a little as he stepped into the hall. At the door of the sitting-room he paused and peered inside. A woman arose and came toward him. It was Miss Clarke.
"Good-evening," he said. "I knew you'd come."
Miss Clarke looked a little surprised, but made no comment.
"I came to give you some information," she said, and her voice was subdued. "I am heartbroken at the awful things which have come out concerning--concerning Mr. Fraser. I have been closely associated with him for several months, and I won't believe that he could have had anything to do with this affair, although I know positively that he was in need of a large sum of money--ninety thousand dollars--because his personal fortune was in danger. Some error in titles to an estate, he told me."
"Yes, yes," said The Thinking Machine.
"Whether he was able to raise this money I don't know," she went on. "I only hope he did without having to--to do that--to have any----"
"To rob his bank," said the scientist, tartly. "Miss Clarke, is young Dunston in love with you?"
The girl's face changed color at the sudden question.
"I don't see----" she began.
"You may not see," said The Thinking Machine, "but I can have him arrested for robbery and convict him."
The girl gazed at him with wide, terror-stricken eyes, and gasped.
"No, no, no," she said, hurriedly. "He could have had nothing to do with that at all."
"Is he in love with you?" again came the question.
There was a pause.
"I've had reason to believe so," she said, finally, "though----"
"And you?"
The girl's face was flaming now, and, squinting into her eyes, the scientist read the answer.
"I understand," he commented, tersely. "Are you going to be married?"
"I could--could never marry him," she gasped suddenly. "No, no," emphatically. "We are not, ever."
She slowly recovered from her confusion, while the scientist continued to squint at her curiously.
"I believe you said you had some information for me?" he asked.
"Y--yes," she faltered. Then more calmly: "Yes. I came to tell you that the package of ten thousand dollars which you took from Mr. Fraser's pocket has again disappeared."
"Yes," said the other, without astonishment.
"It was presumed at the bank that he had taken it home with him, having regained possession of it in some way, but a careful search has failed to reveal it."
"Yes, and what else?"
The girl took a long breath and gazed steadily into the eyes of the scientist, with determination in her own.
"I have come, too, to tell you," she said, "the name of the man who robbed the bank."
If Miss Clarke had expected that The Thinking Machine would show either astonishment or enthusiasm, she must have been disappointed, for he neither altered his position nor looked at her. Instead, he was gazing thoughtfully away with lackluster eyes.
"Well?" he asked. "I suppose it's a story. Begin at the beginning."
With a certain well-bred air of timidity, the girl began the story; and occasionally as she talked there was a little tremor of the lips.
"I have been a stenographer and typewriter for seven years," she said, "and in that time I have held only four positions. The first was in a law office in New York, where I was left an orphan to earn my own living; the second was with a manufacturing concern, also in New York. I left there three years ago to accept the position of private secretary to William T. Rankin, president of the ---- National Bank, at Hartford, Connecticut. I came from there to Boston and later went to work at the Ralston Bank, as private secretary to Mr. Fraser. I left the bank in Hartford because of the failure of that concern, following a bank robbery."
The Thinking Machine glanced at her suddenly.
"You may remember from the newspapers----" she began again.
"I never read the newspapers," he said.
"Well, anyway," and there was a shade of impatience at the interruption, "there was a bank burglary there similar to this. Only seventy thousand dollars was stolen, but it was a small institution and the theft precipitated a run which caused a collapse after I had been in that position for only six months."
"How long have you been with the Ralston National?"
"Nine months," was the reply.
"Had you saved any money while working in your other positions?"
"Well, the salary was small--I couldn't have saved much."
"How did you live those two years from the time you left the Hartford Bank until you accepted this position?"
The girl stammered a little.
"I received assistance from friends," she said, finally.
"Go on."
"That bank in Hartford," she continued, with a little gleam of resentment in her eyes, "had a safe similar to the one at the Ralston National, though not so large. It was blown in identically the same way as this one was blown."
"Oh, I see," said the scientist. "Some one was arrested for this, and you want to give me the name of that man?"
"Yes," said the girl. "A professional burglar, William Dineen, was arrested for that robbery and confessed. Later he escaped. After his arrest he boasted of his ability to blow any style of safe. He used an invention of his own for the borings to place the charges. I noticed that safe and I noticed this one. There is a striking similarity in the two."
The Thinking Machine stared at her.
"Why do you tell me?" he asked. "Because I understood you were making the investigation for the bank," she responded, unhesitatingly, "and I dreaded the notoriety of telling the police."
"If this William Dineen is at large you believe he did this?"
"I am almost positive."
"Thank you," said The Thinking Machine.
Miss Clarke went away, and late that night Hatch appeared. He looked weary and sank into a chair gratefully, but there was satisfaction in his eye. For an hour or more he talked. At last The Thinking Machine was satisfied, nearly.
"One thing more," he said, in conclusion. "Notify the police to look out for William Dineen, professional bank burglar, and his pals, whose names you can get from the newspapers in connection with a bank robbery in Hartford. They are wanted in connection with this case."
The reporter nodded.
"When Mr. Fraser recovers I intend to hold a little party here," the scientist continued. "It will be a surprise party."
It was two days later, and the police were apparently seeking some tangible point from which they could proceed, when The Thinking Machine received word that there had been a change for the better in Mr. Fraser's condition. Immediately he sent for Detective Mallory, with whom he held a long conversation. The detective went away tugging at his heavy mustache and smiling. With three other men he disappeared from police haunts that afternoon on a special mission.
That night the little "party" was held in the apartments of The Thinking Machine. President Fraser was first to arrive. He was pale and weak, but there was a fever of impatience in his manner. Then came West, Dunston, Miss Clarke, Miss Willis and Charles Burton, a clerk whose engagement to the pretty Miss Willis had been recently announced.
The party gathered, each staring at the other curiously, with questions in their eyes, until The Thinking Machine entered, rubbing his fingers together briskly. Behind him came Hatch, bearing a shabby gripsack. The reporter's face showed excitement despite his rigid efforts to repress it. There were some preliminaries, and then the scientist began.
"To come to the matter quickly," he said, in preface, "we will take it for granted that no employee of the Ralston Bank is a professional burglar. But the person who was responsible for that burglary, who shared the money stolen, who planned it and actually assisted in its execution is in this room--now."
Instantly there was consternation, but it found no expression in words, only in the faces of those present.
"Further, I may inform you," went on the scientist, "that no one will be permitted to leave this room until I finish."
"Permitted?" demanded Dunston. "We are not prisoners."
"You will be if I give the word," was the response, and Dunston sat back, dazed. He glanced uneasily at the faces of the others; they glanced uneasily at him.
"The actual facts in the robbery you know," went on The Thinking Machine. "You know that the safe was blown, that a large sum of money was stolen, that Mr. West's handkerchief was found near the safe. Now, I'll tell you what I have learned. We will begin with President Fraser.
"Against Mr. Fraser is more direct evidence than against anyone else, because in his pocket was found one of the stolen bundles of money, containing ten thousand dollars. Mr. Fraser needed ninety thousand dollars previous to the robbery."
"But----" began the old man, with deathlike face.
"Never mind," said the scientist. "Next, Miss Willis." Curious eyes were turned on her, and she, too, grew suddenly white. "Against her is less direct evidence than against anyone else. Miss Willis positively declined to permit a search of her person until she was compelled to do so by the fact that the other two permitted it. The fact that nothing was found has no bearing on the subject. She did refuse.
"Then Charles Burton," the inexorable voice went on, calmly; as if in mere discussion of a problem of mathematics. "Burton is engaged to Miss Willis. He is ambitious. He recently lost twenty thousand dollars in stock speculation--all he had. He needed more money in order to give this girl, who refused to be searched, a comfortable home.
"Next Miss Clarke, secretary to Mr. Fraser. Originally she came under consideration through the fact that she used perfume, and that Mr. West's handkerchief carried a faint odor of perfume. Now it is a fact that for years Miss Clarke used violet perfume, then on the day following the robbery suddenly began to use strong rose perfume, which smothers a violet odor. Miss Clarke, you will remember, fainted at the time of the search. I may add that a short while ago she was employed in a bank which was robbed in the identical manner of this one."
Miss Clarke sat apparently calm, and even faintly smiling, but her face was white. The Thinking Machine squinted at her a moment, then turned suddenly to Cashier West.
"Here is the man," he said, "whose handkerchief was found, but he does not use perfume, has never used it. He is the man who would have had best opportunity to leave unfastened the window in his private office by which the thieves entered the bank; he is the man who would have had the best opportunity to apply a certain chemical solution to the granite sockets of the steel bars, weakening the granite so they could be pulled out; he is the man who misrepresented facts to me. He told me he did not have and had not tried to raise any especially large sum of money. Yet on the day following the robbery he deposited one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash in a bank in Chicago. The stolen sum was one hundred and twenty-nine thousand dollars. That man, there."
All eyes were now turned on the cashier. He seemed choking, started to speak, then dropped back into his chair.
"And last, Dunston," resumed The Thinking Machine, and he pointed dramatically at the receiving teller. "He had equal opportunity with Mr. West to know of the amount of money in the bank; he refused first to be searched, and you witnessed his act a moment ago. To this man now there clings the identical odor of violet perfume which was on the handkerchief--not a perfume like it, but the identical odor."
There was silence, dumfounded silence, for a long time. No one dared to look at his neighbor now; the reporter felt the tension. At last The Thinking Machine spoke again.
"As I have said, the person who planned and participated in the burglary is now in this room. If that person will stand forth and confess it will mean a vast difference in the length of the term in prison."
Again silence. At last there came a knock at the door, and Martha thrust her head in.
"Two gentlemen and four cops are here," she announced.
"There are the accomplices of the guilty person, the men who actually blew that safe," declared the scientist, dramatically. "Again, will the guilty person confess?"
No one stirred.
There was tense silence for a moment. Dunston was the first to speak.
"This is all a bluff," he said. "I think, Mr. Fraser, there are some explanations and apologies due to all of us, particularly to Miss Clarke and Miss Willis," he added, as an afterthought. "It is humiliating, and no good has been done. I had intended asking Miss Clarke to be my wife, and now I assert my right to speak for her. I demand an apology."
Carried away by his own anger and by the pleading face of Miss Clarke and the pain there, the young man turned fiercely on The Thinking Machine. Bewilderment was on the faces of the two banking officials.
"You feel that an explanation is due?" asked The Thinking Machine, meekly.
"Yes," thundered the young man.
"You shall have it," was the quiet answer, and the stooped figure of the scientist moved across the room to the door. He said something to some one outside and returned.
"Again I'll give you a chance for a confession," he said. "It will shorten your prison term." He was speaking to no one in particular; yet to them all. "The two men who blew the safe are now about to enter this room. After they appear it will be too late."
Startled glances were exchanged, but no one stirred. Then came a knock at the door. Silently The Thinking Machine looked about with a question in his eyes. Still silence, and he threw open the door. Three policemen in uniform and Detective Mallory entered, bringing two prisoners.
"These are the men who blew the safe," The Thinking Machine explained, indicating the prisoners. "Does anyone here recognize them?"
Apparently no one did, for none spoke.
"Do you recognize any person in this room?" he asked of the prisoners.
One of them laughed shortly and said something aside to the other, who smiled. The Thinking Machine was nettled and when he spoke again there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
"It may enlighten at least one of you in this room," he said, "to tell you that these two men are Frank Seranno and Gustave Meyer, Mr. Meyer being a pupil and former associate of the notorious bank burglar, William Dineen. You may lock them up now," he said to Detective Mallory. "They will confess later."
"Confess!" exclaimed one of them. Both laughed.
The prisoners were led out and Detective Mallory returned to lave in the font of analytical wisdom, although he would not have expressed it in those words. Then The Thinking Machine began at the beginning and told his story.
"I undertook to throw some light on this affair a few hours after its occurrence, at the request of President Fraser, who had once been able to do me a very great favor," he explained. "I went to the bank--you all saw me there--looked over the premises, saw how the thieves had entered the building, looked at the safe and at the spot where the handkerchief was found. To my mind it was demonstrated clearly that the handkerchief appeared there at the time of the burglary. I inquired if there was any draught through the office, seeking in that way to find if the handkerchief might have been lost at some other place in the bank, overlooked by the sweeper and blown to the spot where it was found. There was no draught.
"Next I asked for the handkerchief. Mr. Fraser asked me into his office to look at it. I saw a woman--Miss Clarke it was--in there and declined to go. Instead, I examined the handkerchief outside. I don't know that my purpose there can be made clear to you. It was a possibility that there would be perfume on the handkerchief, and the woman in the office might use perfume. I didn't want to confuse the odors. Miss Clarke was not in the bank when I arrived; she had gone to luncheon.
"Instantly I got the handkerchief I noticed the odor of perfume--violet perfume. Perfume is used by a great many women, by very few men. I asked how many women were employed in the bank. There were three. I handed the scented handkerchief to Mr. Hatch, removed all odor of the clinging perfume from my hands with my own handkerchief and also handed that to Mr. Hatch, so as to completely rid myself of the odor.
"Then I started through the bank and spoke to every person in it, standing close to them so that I might catch the odor if they used it. Miss Clarke was the first person who I found used it--but the perfume she used was a strong rose odor. Then I went on until I came to Mr. Dunston. The identical odor of the handkerchief he revealed to me by drawing out his own handkerchief while I talked to him."
Dunston looked a little startled, but said nothing; instead he glanced at Miss Clarke, who sat listening, interestedly. He could not read the expression on her face.
"This much done," continued The Thinking Machine, "we retired to Cashier West's office. There I knew the burglars had entered; there I saw a powerful chemical solution had been applied to the granite around the sockets of the protecting steel bars to soften the stone. Its direct effect is to make it of chalklike consistency. I was also curious to know if any noise made in that room would attract attention in the outer office, so I upset a heavy chair, then looked outside. No one moved or looked back; therefore no one heard.
"Here I explained to President Fraser and to Mr. West why I connected some one in the bank with the burglary. It was because of the scent on the handkerchief. It would be tedious to repeat the detailed explanation I had to give them. I sent Mr. Hatch to find out, first, if Miss Clarke here had ever used violet perfume instead of rose; also to find out if any members of Mr. West's family used any perfume, particularly violet. I knew that Mr. Dunston used it.
"Then I asked Mr. Fraser if he had sought to raise any large sum of money. He told me the truth. But Mr. West did not tell me the truth in answer to a question along the same lines. Now I know why. It was because as cashier of the bank he was not supposed to operate in stocks, yet he has made a fortune at it. He didn't want Fraser to know this, and willfully misrepresented the facts.
"Then came the search. I expected to find just what was found, money, but considerably more of it. Miss Willis objected, Mr. Dunston objected and Miss Clarke fainted in the arms of Mr. Fraser. I read the motives of each aright. Dunston objected because he is an egotistical young man and, being young, is foolish. He considered it an insult. Miss Willis objected also through a feeling of pride."
The Thinking Machine paused for a moment, locked his fingers behind his head and leaned far back in his chair.
"Shall I tell what happened next?" he asked, "or will you tell it?"
Everyone in the room knew it was a question to the guilty person. Which? Whom? There came no answer, and after a moment The Thinking Machine resumed, quietly, very quietly.
"Miss Clarke fainted in Mr. Fraser's arms. While leaning against him, and while he stroked her hair and tried to soothe her, she took from the bosom of her loose shirtwaist a bundle of money, ten thousand dollars, and slipped it into the inside pocket of Mr. Fraser's coat."
There was deathlike silence.
"It's a lie!" screamed the girl, and she rose to her feet with anger-distorted face. "It's a lie!"
Dunston arose suddenly and went to her. With his arm about her he turned defiantly to The Thinking Machine, who had not moved or altered his position in the slightest. Dunston said nothing, because there seemed to be nothing to say.
"Into the inside pocket of Mr. Fraser's coat," The Thinking Machine repeated. "When she removed her arms his scarf pin clung to the lace on one of her sleeves. That I saw. That pin could not have caught on her sleeve where it did if her hand had not been to the coat pocket. Having passed this sum of money--her pitiful share of the theft--she agreed to the search."
"It's a lie!" shrieked the girl again. And her every tone and every gesture said it was the truth. Dunston gazed into her eyes with horror in his own and his arm fell limply. Still he said nothing.
"Of course nothing was found," the quiet voice went on. "When I discovered the bank notes in Mr. Fraser's pocket I smelled of them--seeking the odor, this time not of violet perfume, but of rose perfume. I found it."
Suddenly the girl whose face had shown only anger and defiance leaned over with her head in her hands and wept bitterly. It was a confession. Dunston stood beside her, helplessly; finally his hand was slowly extended and he stroked her hair.
"Go on, please," he said to Professor Van Dusen, meekly. His suffering was no less than hers.
"These facts were important, but not conclusive," said The Thinking Machine, "so next, with Mr. Hatch's aid here, I ascertained other things about Miss Clarke. I found out that when she went out to luncheon that day she purchased some powerful rose perfume; that, contrary to custom, she went home; that she used it liberally in her room; and that she destroyed a large bottle of violet perfume which you, Mr. Dunston, had given her. I ascertained also that her room was disarranged, particularly the couch. I assume from this that when she went to the office in the morning she did not have the money about her; that she left it hidden in the couch; that through fear of its discovery she rushed back home to get it; that she put it inside her shirtwaist, and there she had it when the search was made. Am I right, Miss Clarke?"
The girl nodded her head and looked up with piteous, tear-stained face.
"That night Miss Clarke called on me. She came ostensibly to tell me that the package of money, ten thousand dollars, had disappeared again. I knew that previously by telephone, and I knew, too, that she had that money then about her. She has it now. Will you give it up?"
Without a word the girl drew out the bundle of money, ten thousand dollars. Detective Mallory took it, held it, amazed for an instant, then passed it to The Thinking Machine, who sniffed at it.
"An odor of strong rose perfume," he said. Then: "Miss Clarke also told me that she had worked in a bank which had been robbed under circumstances identical with this by one William Dineen, and expressed the belief that he had something to do with this. Mr. Hatch ascertained that two of Dineen's pals were living in Cambridge. He found their rooms and searched them, later giving the address to the police.
"Now, why did Miss Clarke tell me that? I considered it in all points. She told me either to aid honestly in the effort to catch the thief, or to divert suspicion in another direction. Knowing as much as I did then, I reasoned it was to divert suspicion from you, Mr. Dunston, and from herself possibly. Dineen is in prison, and was there three months before this robbery; I believed she knew that. His pals are the two men in the other room; they are the men who aided Dineen in the robbery of the Hartford bank, with Miss Clarke's assistance; they are the men who robbed the Ralston National with her assistance. She herself indicated her profit from the Hartford robbery to me by a remark she made indicating that she had not found it necessary to work for two years from the time she left the Hartford bank until she became Mr. Fraser's secretary."
There was a pause. Miss Clarke sat sobbing, while Dunston stood near her studying the toe of his shoe. After awhile the girl became more calm.
"Miss Clarke, would you like to explain anything?" asked The Thinking Machine. His voice was gentle, even deferential.
"Nothing," she said, "except admit it all--all. I have nothing to conceal. I went to the bank, as I went to the bank in Hartford, for the purpose of robbery, with the assistance of those men in the next room. We have worked together for years. I planned this robbery; I had the opportunity, and availed myself of it, to put a solution on the sockets of the steel bars of the window in Mr. West's room, which would gradually destroy the granite and make it possible to pull out the bars. This took weeks, but I could reach that room safely from Mr. Fraser's.
"I had the opportunity to leave the window unfastened and did so. I dressed in men's clothing and accompanied those two men to the bank. We crept in the window, after pulling the bars out. The men attacked the night watchman and bound him. The handkerchief of Mr. West's I happened to pick up in the office one afternoon a month ago and took it home. There it got the odor of perfume from being in a bureau with my things. On the night we went to the bank I needed something to put about my neck and used it. In the bank I dropped it. We had arranged all details at night, when I met them."
She stopped and looked at Dunston, a long, lingering look, that sent the blood to his face. It was not an appeal; it was nothing save the woman love in her, mingled with desperation.
"I intended to leave the bank in a little while," she went on. "Not immediately, because I was afraid that would attract attention, but after a few weeks. And then, too, I wanted to get forever out of sight of this man," and she indicated Dunston.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I loved you as no woman ever loved a man before," she said, "and I was not worthy. There was another reason, too--I am married already. This man, Gustave Meyer, is my husband."
She paused and fumbled nervously at the veil fastening at her throat. Silence lay over the room; The Thinking Machine reached behind him and picked up the shabby-looking gripsack which had passed unnoticed.
"Are there any more questions?" the girl asked, at last.
"I think not," said The Thinking Machine.
"And, Mr. Dunston, you will give me credit for some good, won't you--some good in that I loved you?" she pleaded.
"My God!" he exclaimed in a sudden burst of feeling.
"Look out!" shouted The Thinking Machine.
He had seen the girl's hand fly to her hat, saw it drawn suddenly away, saw something slender flash at her breast. But it was too late. She had driven a heavy hat pin straight through her breast, piercing the heart. She died in the arms of the man she loved, with his tears on her face.
Detective Mallory appeared before the two prisoners in an adjoining room.
"Miss Clarke has confessed," he said.
"Well, the little devil!" exclaimed Meyer. "I knew some day she would throw us. I'll kill her!"
"It isn't necessary," remarked Mallory.
* * * * *
In the room where the girl lay The Thinking Machine pushed with his foot the shabby-looking grip toward President Fraser and West.
"There's the money," he said.
"Where--how did you get it?"
"Ask Mr. Hatch."
"Professor Van Dusen told me to search the rooms of those men in there, find the shabbiest looking bag or receptacle that was securely locked, and bring it to him. I--I did so. I found it under the bed, but I didn't know what was in it until he opened it."
Where the light slants down softly into one corner of a noted art museum in Boston there hangs a large picture. Its title is "Fulfillment." Discriminating art critics have alternately raved at it and praised it; from the day it appeared there it has been a fruitful source of acrimonious discussion. As for the public, it accepts the picture as a startling, amazing thing of beauty, and there is always a crowd around it.
"Fulfillment" is typified by a woman. She stands boldly forth against a languorous background of deep tones. Flesh tints are daringly laid on the semi-nude figure, diaphanous draperies hide, yet, reveal, the exquisite lines of the body. Her arms are outstretched straight toward the spectator, the black hair ripples down over her shoulders, the red lips are slightly parted. The mysteries of complete achievement and perfect life lie in her eyes.
Into this picture the artist wove the spiritual and the worldly; here he placed on canvas an elusive portrayal of success in its fullest and widest meaning. One's first impression of the picture is that it is sensual; another glance shows the underlying typification of success, and love and life are there. One by one the qualities stand forth.
The artist was Constans St. George. After the first flurry of excitement which the picture caused there came a whirlwind of criticism. Then the artist, who had labored for months on the work which he had intended and which proved to be his masterpiece, collapsed. Some said it was overwork--they were partly right; others that it was grief at the attacks of critics who did not see beyond the surface of the painting. Perhaps they, too, were partly right.
However that may be, it is a fact that for several months after the picture was exhibited St. George was in a sanitarium. The physicians said it was nervous collapse--a total breaking-down, and there were fears for his sanity. At length there came an improvement in his condition, and he returned to the world. Since then he had lived quietly in his studio, one of many in a large office building. From time to time he had been approached with offers for the picture, but always he refused to sell. A New York millionaire made a flat proposition of fifty thousand dollars, which was as flatly refused.
The artist loved the picture as a child of his own brain; every day he visited the museum where it was exhibited and stood looking at it with something almost like adoration in his eyes. Then he went away quietly, tugging at his straggling beard and with the dim blindness of tears in his eyes. He never spoke to anyone; and always avoided that moment when a crowd was about.
Whatever the verdict of the critics or of the public on "Fulfillment," it was an admitted fact that the artist had placed on canvas a representation of a wonderfully beautiful woman. Therefore, after awhile the question of who had been the model for "Fulfillment" was aroused. No one knew, apparently. Artists who knew St. George could give no idea--they only knew that the woman who had posed was not a professional model.
This led to speculation, in which the names of some of the most beautiful women in the United States were mentioned. Then a romance was woven. This was that the artist was in love with the original and that his collapse was partly due to her refusal to wed him. This story, as it went, was elaborated until the artist was said to be pining away for love of one whom he had immortalized in oils.
As the story grew it gained credence, and a search was still made occasionally for the model. Half a dozen times Hutchinson Hatch, a newspaper reporter of more than usual astuteness, had been on the story without success; he had seen and studied the picture until every line of it was firmly in his mind. He had seen and talked to St. George twice. The artist would answer no questions as to the identity of the model.
This, then, was the situation on the morning of Friday, November 27, when Hatch entered the reportorial rooms of his newspaper. At sight of him the City Editor removed his cigar, placed it carefully on the "official block" which adorned his flat-topped desk, and called to the reporter.
"Girl reported missing," he said, brusquely. "Name is Grace Field, and she lived at No. 195 ---- Street, Dorchester. Employed in the photographic department of the Star, a big department store. Report of her disappearance made to the police early to-day by Ellen Stanford, her roommate, also employed at the Star. Jump out on it and get all you can. Here is the official police description."
Hatch took a slip of paper and read:
"Grace Field, twenty-one years, five feet seven inches tall, weight 151 pounds, profuse black hair, dark-brown eyes, superb figure, oval face, said to be beautiful."
Then the description went into details of her dress add other things which the police note in their minute records for a search. Hatch absorbed all these things and left his office. He went first to the department store, where he was told Miss Stanford had not appeared that day, sending a note that she was ill.
From the store Hatch went at once to the address given in Dorchester. Miss Stanford was in. Would she see a reporter? Yes. So Hatch was ushered into the modest little parlor of a boarding-house, and after awhile Miss Stanford entered. She was a petite blonde, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, now reddened by weeping.
Briefly Hatch explained the purpose of his visit--an effort to find Grace Field, and Miss Stanford eagerly and tearfully expressed herself as willing to tell him all she knew.
"I have known Grace for five months," she explained; "that is, from the time she came to work at the Star. Her counter is next to mine. A friendship grew up between us, and we began rooming together. Each of us is alone in the East. She comes from the West, somewhere in Nevada, and I come from Quebec.
"Grace has never said much about herself, but I know that she had been in Boston a year or so before I met her. She lived somewhere in Brookline, I believe, but it seems that she had some funds and did not go to work until she came to the Star. This is as I understand it.
"Three days ago, on Tuesday it was, there was a letter for Grace when we came in from work. It seemed to agitate her, although she said nothing to me about what was in it, and I did not ask. She did not sleep well that night, but next morning, when we started to work, she seemed all right. That is, she was all right until we got to the subway station, and then she told me to go on to the store, saying she would be there after awhile.
"I left her, and at her request explained to the manager of our floor that she would be late. From that time to this no one has seen her or heard of her. I don't know where she could have gone," and the girl burst into tears. "I'm sure something dreadful has happened to her."
"Possibly an elopement?" Hatch suggested.
"No," said the girl, quickly. "No. She was in love, but the man she was in love with has not heard of her either. I saw him the night after she disappeared. He called here and asked for her, and seemed surprised that she had not returned home, or had not been at work."
"What's his name?" asked Hatch.
"He's a clerk in a bank," said Miss Stanford. "His name is Willis--Victor Willis. If she had eloped with him I would not have been surprised, but I am positive she did not, and if she did not, where is she?"
"Were there any other admirers you know of?" Hatch asked.
"No," said the girl, stoutly. "There may have been others who admired her, but none she cared for. She has told me too much--I--I know," she faltered.
"How long have you known Mr. Willis?" asked Hatch.
The girl's face flamed scarlet instantly.
"Only since I've known Grace," she replied. "She introduced us."
"Has Mr. Willis ever shown you any attention?"
"Certainly not," Miss Stanford flashed, angrily. "All his attention was for Grace."
There was the least trace of bitterness in the tone, and Hatch imagined he read it aright. Willis was a man whom both perhaps loved; it might be in that event that Miss Stanford knew more than she had said of the whereabouts of Grace Field. The next step was to see Willis.
"I suppose you'll do everything possible to find Miss Field?" he asked.
"Certainly," said the girl.
"Have you her photograph?"
"I have one, yes, but I don't think--I don't believe Grace----"
"Would like to have it published?" asked Hatch. "Possibly not, under ordinary circumstances--but now that she is missing it is the surest way of getting a trace of her. Will you give it to me?"
Miss Stanford was silent for a time. Then apparently she made up her mind, for she arose.
"It might be well, too," Hatch suggested, "to see if you can find the letter you mentioned."
The girl nodded and went out. When she returned she had a photograph in her hand; a glimpse of it told Hatch it was a bust picture of a woman in evening dress. The girl was studying a scrap of paper.
"What is it?" asked Hatch, quickly.
"I don't know," she responded. "I was searching for the letter when I remembered she frequently tore them up and dropped them into the waste-basket. It had been emptied every day, but I looked and found this clinging to the bottom, caught between the cane."
"May I see it?" asked the reporter.
The girl handed it to him. It was evidently a piece of a letter torn from the outer edge just where the paper was folded to put it into the envelope. On it were these words and detached letters, written in a bold hand: