face as he realized that the questions were almost an accusation. He started to speak, but the steady, impassive voice of The Thinking Machine stopped him.
“Mr. Mallory, take your prisoner,” it said.
Instantly there was a fierce, frantic struggle, and those present turned to see the detective with his great arms locked about Stanley Wightman, the melancholy Jaques of “As You Like It.” The actor’s face was distorted, madness blazed in the eyes, and he snarled like a beast at bay. By a sudden movement Mallory threw Wightman and manacled him, then looked up to find The Thinking Machine peering over his shoulder at the prostrate man.
“Yes, he’s a hypnotist,” the scientist remarked in self-satisfied conclusion. “It always tells in the pupils of the eyes.”
This, then, was the beginning and end of the first problem. Miss Wallack was aroused, and told a story almost identical with that of The Thinking Machine. Stanley Wightman, whose brooding over a hopeless love for her made a maniac of him, raves and shrieks the lines of Jaques in the seclusion of a padded cell.
The Problem of the Crystal Gazer
With hideous, goggling eyes the great god Budd sat cross-legged on a pedestal and stared stolidly into the semi-darkness. He saw, by the wavering light of a peacock lamp which swooped down from the ceiling with wings outstretched, what might have been a nook in a palace of East India. Draperies hung here, there, everywhere; richly embroidered divans sprawled about; fierce tiger rugs glared up from the floor; grotesque idols grinned mirthlessly in unexpected corners; strange arms were grouped on the walls. Outside the trolley cars clanged blatantly.
The single human figure was a distinct contradiction of all else. It was that of a man in evening dress, smoking. He was fifty, perhaps sixty, years old with the ruddy colour of one who has lived a great deal out of doors. There was only a touch of gray in his abundant hair and moustache. His eyes were steady and clear, and indolent.
For a long time he sat, then the draperies to his right parted and a girl entered. She was a part of the picture of which the man was a contradiction. Her lustrous black hair flowed about her shoulders; lambent mysteries lay in her eyes. Her dress was the dress of the East. For a moment she stood looking at the man and then entered with light tread.
“Varick Sahib,” she said, timidly, as if it were a greeting. “Do I intrude?” Her voice was softly guttural with the accent of her native tongue.
“Oh no, Jadeh. Come in,” said the man.
She smiled frankly and sat down on a hassock near him.
“My brother?” she asked.
“He is in the cabinet.”
Varick had merely glanced at her and then continued his thoughtful gaze into vacancy. From time to time she looked up at him shyly, with a touch of eagerness, but there was no answering interest in his manner. His thoughts were far away.
“May I ask what brings you this time, Sahib?” she inquired at last.
“A little deal in the market,” responded Varick, carelessly. “It seems to have puzzled Adhem as much as it did me. He has been in the cabinet for half an hour.”
He stared on musingly as he smoked, then dropped his eyes to the slender, graceful figure of Jadeh. With knees clasped in her hands she leaned back on the hassock deeply thoughtful. Her head was tilted upward and the flickering light fell full on her face. It crossed Varick’s mind that she was pretty, and he was about to say so as he would have said it to any other woman, when the curtains behind them were thrown apart and they both glanced around.
Another man—an East Indian—entered. This man was Adhem Singh, the crystal gazer, in the ostentatious robes of a seer. He, too, was a part of the picture. There was an expression of apprehension, mingled with some other impalpable quality on his strong face.
“Well, Adhem?” inquired Varick.
“I have seen strange things, Sahib,” replied the seer, solemnly. “The crystal tells me of danger.”
“Danger?” repeated Varick with a slight lifting of his brows. “Oh well, in that case I shall keep out of it.”
“Not danger to your business, Sahib,” the crystal gazer went on with troubled face, “but danger in another way.”
The girl, Jadeh, looked at him with quick, startled eyes and asked some question in her native tongue. He answered in the same language, and she rose suddenly with terror stricken face to fling herself at Varick’s feet, weeping. Varick seemed to understand too, and looked at the seer in apprehension.
“Death?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
Adhem was silent for a moment and bowed his head respectfully before the steady, inquiring gaze of the white man.
“Pardon, Sahib,” he said at last. “I did not remember that you understood my language.”
“What is it?” insisted Varick, abruptly. “Tell me.”
“I cannot, Sahib.”
“You must,” declared the other. He had arisen commandingly. “You must.”
The crystal gazer crossed to him and stood for an instant with his hand on the white man’s shoulder, and his eyes studying the fear he found in the white man’s face.
“The crystal, Sahib,” he began. “It tells me that—that—”
“No, no, brother,” pleaded the girl.
“Go on,” Varick commanded.
“It grieves me to say that which will pain one whom I love as I do you, Sahib,” said the seer, slowly. “Perhaps you had rather see for yourself?”
“Well, let me see then,” said Varick. “Is it in the crystal?”
“Yes, by the grace of the gods.”
“But I can’t see anything there,” Varick remembered. “I’ve tried scores of times.”
“I believe this will he different, Sahib,” said Adhem, quietly. “Can you stand a shock?”
Varick shook himself a little impatiently.
“Of course,” he replied. “Yes, yes.”
“A very serious shock?”
Again there was an impatient twist of Varick’s shoulders.
“Yes, I can stand anything,” he exclaimed shortly. “What is it? Let me see.”
He strode toward that point in the draperies where Adhem had entered while the girl on her knees, sought with entreating hands to stop him.
“No, no, no,” she pleaded. “No.”
“Don’t do that,” Varick expostulated in annoyance, but gently he stooped and lifted her to
