three months—yes.”
“The weather remained cool during that time? Late winter and early spring?”
“I presume so. I don’t recall. I know the first time I heard the bell was an early, warm day of spring, because my window had not previously been opened.”
The Thinking Machine was dreamily squinting upward. As he stared into the quiet, narrow eyes a certain measure of confidence seemed to return to Mr. Phillips. He raised himself on an elbow.
“You say that once you heard the bell ring late at night—twice. What were the circumstances?”
“That was the night preceding a day of some important operations I had planned,” explained Mr. Phillips, “and I was in the little room for a long time after midnight going over some figures.”
“Do you remember the date?”
“Perfectly. It was Tuesday, the eleventh of this month,”—and, for an instant, memory called to Mr. Phillips’ face an expression which financial foes know well. “I remember, because next day I forced the market up to a record price on some railway stocks I control.”
The Thinking Machine nodded.
“This servant of yours who is missing, Francis, was rather a timid sort of man, I imagine.”
“Well, I could hardly say,” replied Mr. Phillips doubtfully.
“Well, he was,” declared The Thinking Machine flatly. “He was a good servant, I dare say?”
“Yes, excellent.”
“Would it have been within his duties to close a window which might have been left open at night?”
“Certainly.”
“Rather a big man?”
“Yes, six feet or so—two hundred and ten pounds, perhaps.”
“And Mr. Matsumi was, of course, small?”
“Yes, small even for a Japanese.”
The Thinking Machine arose and placed his fingers on Mr. Phillips’ wrist. He stood thus for half a minute.
“Did you ever notice any odor after the bell rang?” he inquired at last.
“Odor?” Mr. Phillips seemed puzzled. “Why, I don’t see what an odor would have to do—”
“I didn’t expect you to,” interrupted The Thinking Machine crustily. “I merely want to know if you noticed one.”
“No,” retorted Mr. Phillips shortly.
“And could you explain your precise feelings?” continued the scientist. “Did the effect of the bell’s ringing seem to be entirely mental, or was it physical? In other words, was there any physical exaltation or depression when you heard it?”
“It would be rather difficult to say—even to myself,” responded Mr. Phillips. “It always seemed to be a shock, but I suppose it was really a mental condition which reacted on my nerves.”
The Thinking Machine walked over to the window and stood with his back to the others. For a minute or more he remained there, and three eager pairs of eyes were fixed inquiringly on the back of his yellow head. Beneath the irritated voice, behind the inscrutable face, in the disjointed questioning, they all knew intuitively there was some definite purpose, but to none came a glimmer of light as to its nature.
“I think, perhaps, the matter is all clear now,” he remarked musingly at last. “There are two vital questions yet to be answered. If the first of these is answered in the affirmative, I know that a mind—I may say a Japanese mind—of singular ingenious quality conceived the condition which brought about this affair; if in the negative, the entire matter becomes ridiculously simple.”
Mr. Phillips was leaning forward, listening greedily. There was hope and fear, doubt and confidence, eagerness and a certain tense restraint in his manner. Doctor Perdue was silent; Hatch merely waited.
“What made the bell ring?” demanded Mr. Phillips.
“I must find the answer to the two remaining questions first,” returned The Thinking Machine.
“You mentioned a Japanese,” said Mr. Phillips. “Do you suspect Mr. Matsumi of any connection with the—the mystery?”
“I never suspect persons of things, Mr. Phillips,” said The Thinking Machine curtly. “I never suspect—I always know. When I know in this case I shall inform you. Mr. Hatch and I are going out for a few minutes. When we return the matter can be disposed of in ten minutes.”
He led the way out and along the hall to the little room where the gong hung. Hatch closed the door as he entered. Then for the third time the scientist examined the bells. He struck the fifth violently time after time, and after each stroke he thrust an inquisitive nose almost against it and sniffed. Hatch stared at him in wonderment. When the scientist had finished he shook his head as if answering a question in the negative. With Hatch following he passed out into the street.
“What’s the matter with Phillips?” the reporter ventured, as they reached the sidewalk.
“Scared, frightened,” was the tart rejoinder. “He’s merely morbidly anxious to account for the bell’s ringing. If I had been absolutely certain before I came out I should have told him. I am certain now. You know, Mr. Hatch, when a thing is beyond immediate understanding it instantly suggests the supernatural to some minds. Mr. Phillips wouldn’t confess it, but he sees back of the ringing of that bell some uncanny power—a threat, perhaps—and the thing has preyed upon him until he’s nearly insane. When I can arrange to make him understand perfectly why the bell rings he will be all right again.”
“I can readily see how the ringing of the bell strikes one as uncanny,” Hatch declared grimly. “Have you an idea what causes it?”
“I know what causes it,” returned the other irritably. “And if you don’t know you’re stupid.”
The reporter shook his head hopelessly.
They crossed the street to the big apartment-house opposite, and entered. The Thinking Machine inquired for and was shown into the office of the manager. He had only one question.
“Was there a ball, or reception, or anything of that sort held in this building on Tuesday night, the eleventh of this month?” he inquired.
“No,” was the response. “There has never been anything of that sort here.”
“Thanks,” said The Thinking Machine. “Good-day.”
Turning abruptly he left the manager to figure that out as best he could, and, with Hatch following, ascended the stairs to the next floor. Here was a wide, airy hallway extending the full length of the building. The Thinking Machine glanced neither to right nor left; he went straight to the rear, where a plate-glass window enframed a panorama of the city. From where they stood the city’s roofs slanted down toward the heart of the business district, half a mile away.
As Hatch looked on The Thinking Machine took
