"It has every ear-mark of it. They perhaps planned the thing weeks before, and forged invitation-cards, or perhaps stole them – perhaps stole them."
He turned suddenly and pointed an accusing finger at the servant, Curtis.
"Did you notice the handwriting on the card the Burglar gave you?" he demanded.
"No, sir. Not particularly."
"I mean, do you recall if it was different in any way from the handwriting on the other cards?" insisted the Supreme Intelligence.
"I don't think it was, sir."
"If it had been would you have noticed it?"
"I might have, sir."
"Were the names written on all the invitation-cards by the same hand, Mr. Randolph?"
"Yes: my wife's secretary."
Detective Mallory arose and paced back and forth across the room with wrinkles in his brow.
"Ah!" he said at last, "then we know the cards were not forged, but stolen from someone to whom they had been sent. We know this much, therefore – " he paused a moment.
"Therefore all that must be done," Mr. Randolph finished the sentence, "is to find from whom the card or cards were stolen, who presented them at my door, and who got away with the plate."
The Supreme Intelligence glared at him aggressively. Mr. Randolph's face was perfectly serious. It was his gold plate, you know.
"Yes, that's it," Detective Mallory assented. "Now we'll get after this thing right. Downey, you get that automobile the Burglar left at Seven Oaks and find its owner; also find the car the Burglar and the Girl escaped in. Cunningham, you go to Seven Oaks and look over the premises. See particularly if the Girl left a wrap – she didn't wear one away from there – and follow that up. Blanton, you take a list of invited guests that Mr. Randolph will give you, check off those persons who are known to have been at the ball, and find out all about those who were not, and – follow that up."
"That'll take weeks!" complained Blanton.
The Supreme Intelligence turned on him fiercely.
"Well?" he demanded. He continued to stare for a moment, and Blanton wrinkled up in the baleful glow of his superior's scorn. "And," Detective Mallory added magnanimously, "I will do the rest."
Thus the campaign was planned against the Burglar and the Girl.
CHAPTER IV
Hutchinson Hatch was a newspaper reporter, a long, lean, hungry looking young man with an insatiable appetite for facts. This last was, perhaps, an astonishing trait in a reporter; and Hatch was positively finicky on the point. That's why his City Editor believed in him. If Hatch had come in and told his City Editor that he had seen a blue elephant with pink side-whiskers his City Editor would have known that that elephant was blue – mentally, morally, physically, spiritually and everlastingly – not any washed-out green or purple, but blue.
Hatch was remarkable in other ways, too. For instance, he believed in the use of a little human intelligence in his profession. As a matter of fact, on several occasions he had demonstrated that it was really an excellent thing – human intelligence. His mind was well poised, his methods thorough, his style direct.
Along with dozens of others Hatch was at work on the Randolph robbery, and knew what the others knew – no more. He had studied the case so closely that he was beginning to believe, strangely enough, that perhaps the police were right in their theory as to the identity of the Burglar and the Girl – that is, that they were professional crooks. He could do a thing like that sometimes – bring his mind around to admit the possibility of somebody else being right.
It was on Saturday afternoon – two days after the Randolph affair – that Hatch was sitting in Detective Mallory's private office at Police Headquarters laboriously extracting from the Supreme Intelligence the precise things he had not found out about the robbery. The telephone-bell rang. Hatch got one end of the conversation – he couldn't help it. It was something like this:
"Hello!.. Yes, Detective Mallory… Missing?.. What's her name?.. What?.. Oh, Dorothy!.. Yes?.. Merritt?.. Oh, Merryman!.. Well, what the deuce is it then?.. SPELL IT!… M-e-r-e-d-i-t-h. Why didn't you say that at first?.. How long has she been gone?.. Huh?.. Thursday evening?.. What does she look like?.. Auburn hair. Red, you mean?.. Oh, ruddy! I'd like to know what's the difference."
The detective had drawn up a pad of paper and was jotting down what Hatch imagined to be the description of a missing girl. Then:
"Who is this talking?" asked the detective.
There was a little pause as he got the answer, and, having the answer, he whistled his astonishment, after which he glanced around quickly at the reporter, who was staring dreamily out a window.
"No," said the Supreme Intelligence over the 'phone. "It wouldn't be wise to make it public. It isn't necessary at all. I understand. I'll order a search immediately. No. The newspapers will get nothing of it. Good-by."
"A story?" inquired Hatch carelessly as the detective hung up the receiver.
"Doesn't amount to anything," was the reply.
"Yes, that's obvious," remarked the reporter drily.
"Well, whatever it is, it is not going to be made public," retorted the Supreme Intelligence sharply. He never did like Hatch, anyway. "It's one of those things that don't do any good in the newspapers, so I'll not let this one get there."
Hatch yawned to show that he had no further interest in the matter, and went out. But there was the germ of an idea in his head which would have startled Detective Mallory, and he paced up and down outside to develop it. A girl missing! A red-headed girl missing! A red-headed girl missing since Thursday! Thursday was the night of the Randolph masked ball. The missing Girl of the West was red-headed! Mallory had seemed astonished when he learned the name of the person who reported this last case! Therefore the person who reported it was high up – perhaps! Certainly high enough up to ask and receive the courtesy of police suppression – and the missing girl's name was Dorothy Meredith!
Hatch stood still for a long time on the curb and figured it out. Suddenly he rushed off to a telephone and called up Stuyvesant Randolph at Seven Oaks. He asked the first question with trepidation:
"Mr. Randolph, can you give me the address of Miss Dorothy Meredith?"
"Miss Meredith?" came the answer. "Let's see. I think she is stopping with the Morgan Greytons, at their suburban place."
The reporter gulped down a shout. "Worked, by thunder!" he exclaimed to himself. Then, in a deadly, forced calm:
"She attended the masked ball Thursday evening, didn't she?"
"Well, she was invited."
"You didn't see her there?"
"No. Who is this?"
Then Hatch hung up the receiver. He was nearly choking with excitement, for, in addition to all those virtues which have been enumerated, he possessed, too, the quality of enthusiasm. It was no part of his purpose to tell anybody anything. Mallory didn't know, he was confident, anything of the girl having been a possible guest at the ball. And what Mallory didn't know now wouldn't be found out, all of which was a sad reflection upon the detective.
