and we’ll do that, but the real problem remains.”
“If it is alive?” Hatch repeated.
“Yes, if,” said the other shortly. “There are in my mind grave doubts on that point.”
“But the kidnappers’ letters?” said Hatch
“Let’s go find out who wrote them,” said the other, enigmatically.
Together the two men went to Lynn, and there for half an hour The Thinking Machine talked to Mrs. Blake. He came out finally with a package in his hand.
Miss Barton, with eyes red, apparently from weeping, and evident sorrow imprinted on her pretty face, entered the room almost at the same moment.
“Miss Barton,” the scientist asked, “could you tell me how much the baby Douglas weighed—relatively, I mean?”
The girl gazed at him a moment as if startled. “About thirty pounds, I should say,” she answered.
“Thanks,” said The Thinking Machine, and turned to Hatch. “I have twenty-five thousand dollars in this package,” he said.
Miss Barton turned and glanced quickly toward him, then passed out of the room.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Hatch.
“It’s for the kidnappers,” was the reply. “The police advised Mrs. Blake not to try to make terms—I advised her the other way and she gave me this.”
“What’s the next step?” Hatch asked.
“To put the advertisement ‘Yes’ signed by Mrs. Blake in the newspaper,” said The Thinking Machine. “That’s in accordance with the stipulations of the letters.”
An hour later the two men were in Boston. The advertisement was inserted in the Boston American as directed. The next day Mrs. Blake received a third letter.
“Rapp the munny in a ole nuspaipr ann thow it onn the trash heape at the addge of the vakant lott one blok down the street frum wear you liv,” it directed. “Putt it on topp. We wil gett it ann yore baby wil be in yore armms two ours latter. Three (3).”
This letter was immediately placed in the hands of The Thinking Machine. Mrs. Blake’s face flushed with hope, and believing that the child would be restored to her, she waited in a fever of impatience.
“Now, Mr. Hatch,” instructed The Thinking Machine. “Do with this package as directed. A man will come for it some time. I shall leave the task of finding out who he is, where he goes and all about him to you. He is probably a man of low mentality, though not so low as the misspelled words of his letter would have you believe. He should be easily trapped. Don’t interfere with him—merely report to me when you find out these things.”
Alone The Thinking Machine returned to Boston. Thirty-six hours later, in the early morning, a telegram came for him. It was as follows:
“Have man located in Lynn and trace of baby. Come quick, if possible, to—Hotel. HATCH.”
4
The Thinking Machine answered the telegraphic summons immediately, but instead of elation on his face there was another expression—possibly surprise. On the train he read and reread the telegram.
“Have trace of baby,” he mused. “Why, it’s perfectly astonishing.”
White-faced from exhaustion, and with eyes drooping from lack of sleep, Hutchinson Hatch met The Thinking Machine in the hotel lobby and they immediately went to a room, which the reporter had engaged on the third floor.
The Thinking Machine listened without comment as Hatch told the story of what he had done. He had placed the bundle, then hired a room overlooking the vacant lot and had remained there at the window for hours. At last night came, but there were clouds which effectively hid the moon. Then Hatch had gone out and secreted himself near the trash pile.
Here from six o’clock in the evening until four in the morning he had remained, numbed with cold and not daring to move. At last his long vigil was rewarded. A man suddenly appeared near the trash heap, glanced around furtively, and then picked up the newspaper package, felt of it to assure himself that it contained something, and then started away quickly.
The work of following him Hatch had not found difficult. He had gone straight to a tenement in the eastern end of Lynn and disappeared inside. Later in the morning, after the occupants of the house were about, Hatch made inquiries which established the identity of the man without question.
His name was Charles Gates and he lived with his wife on the fourth floor of the tenement. His reputation was not wholly savory, and he drank a great deal. He was a man of some education, but not of such ignorance as the letters he had written would indicate.
“After learning all these facts,” Hatch went on, “my idea was to see the man and talk to him or to his wife. I went there this morning about nine o’clock, as a book agent.” The reporter smiled a little. “His wife, Mrs. Gates, didn’t want any books, but I nearly sold her a sewing machine.
“Anyway, I got into the apartments and remained there for fifteen or twenty minutes. There was only one room which I didn’t enter, of the four there. In that room, the woman explained, her husband was asleep. He had been out late the night before, she said. Of course I knew that.
“I asked if she had any babies and received a negative. From other people in the house I learned that this was true so far as they knew. There was not and has not been a baby in the apartments so far as anyone could tell me. And in spite of that fact I found this.”
Hatch drew something from his pocket and spread it on his open hand. It was a baby stocking of fine texture. The Thinking Machine took it and looked at it closely.
“Baby Blake’s?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the reporter. “Both Mrs. Blake and the nurse, Miss Barton, identify it.”
“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed the scientist, thoughtfully. Again the puzzled expression came into his face.
“Of course, the baby hasn’t been returned?” went on the scientist.
“Of course not!” said Hatch.
“Did Mrs. Gates behave like a woman who had suddenly received a share of twenty-five thousand dollars?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“No,” Hatch replied. “She looked as if she had attended a mixed ale party. Her lip was cut and bruised and one eye was black.”
“That’s what her husband did when he found out what was in the newspaper,” commented The Thinking Machine, grimly.
“It wasn’t money, at all, then?” asked Hatch.
“Certainly not.”
Neither said anything for several minutes. The Thinking Machine sat idly twisting the tiny stocking between his long, slender fingers with the little puzzled line in his brow.
“How
