yes. I neglected to tell you that the maid, Gertrude Manning, had gone home immediately after the first act. She grew suddenly ill and was excused.”
The Thinking Machine turned his squint eyes on the reporter for the first time.
“Ill?” he repeated. “What was the matter?”
“That I can’t say,” replied the reporter.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. Everyone forgot all about her in the excitement about Miss Wallack.”
“What kind of candy was it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that either.”
“Where was it bought?’”
The reporter shrugged his shoulders; that was something else he didn’t know.
The Thinking Machine shot out the questions aggressively, staring meanwhile steadily at Hatch, who squirmed uncomfortably. “Where is the candy now?” demanded the scientist.
Again Hatch shrugged his shoulders.
“How much did Miss Wallack weigh?”
The reporter was willing to guess at this. He had seen her half a dozen times.
“Between a hundred and thirty and a hundred and forty,” he ventured.
“Does there happen to be a hypnotist connected with the company?”
“I don’t know,” Hatch replied.
The Thinking Machine waved his slender hands impatiently; he was annoyed. “It is perfectly absurd, Mr. Hatch,” he expostulated, “to come to me with only a few facts and ask advice. If you had all the facts I might be able to do something; but this—”
The newspaper man was nettled. In his own profession he was accredited a man of discernment and acumen. He resented the tone, the manner, even the seemingly trivial questions, which the other asked. “I don’t see,” he began, “that the candy even if it had been poisoned as I imagine you think possible, or a hypnotist could have had anything to do with Miss Wallack’s disappearance. Certainly neither poison nor hypnotism would have made her invisible.”
“Of course you don’t see!” blazed The Thinking Machine. “If you did, you wouldn’t have come to me. When did this thing happen?”
“Saturday night, as I said,” the reporter informed him a little more humbly. “It closed the engagement in Springfield. Miss Wallack was to have appeared here in Boston tonight.”
“When did she disappear—by the clock, I mean?”
“The stage manager’s time slip shows that the curtain for the third act went up at nine-fortyone—he spoke to her, say, one minute before, or at nine-forty. The action of the play before she appears in the third act takes six minutes; therefore—”
“In precisely seven minutes a woman, weighing more than 130 pounds, certainly not dressed for the street, disappeared completely from her dressing room. It is now five-eighteen Monday afternoon. I think we may solve this crime within a few hours.”
“Crime?” Hatch repeated eagerly. “Do you imagine there is a crime then?”
Professor Van Dusen didn’t heed the question. Instead he rose and paced back and forth across the reception room half a dozen times, his hands behind his back and his eyes cast down. At last he stopped and faced the reporter, who had also risen.
“Miss Wallack’s company, I presume, with the baggage, is now in Boston,” he said. “See every male member of the company, talk to them and particularly study their eyes. Don’t overlook anyone, however humble. Also find out what became of the box of chocolate candy, and if possible how many pieces are out of it. Then report here to me. Miss Wallack’s safety may depend upon your speed and accuracy.”
Hatch was frankly startled. “How—” he began.
“Don’t stop to talk—hurry!” commanded The Thinking Machine. “I will have a cab waiting when you come back. We must get to Springfield.”
The newspaper man rushed away to obey orders. He didn’t understand them at all. Studying men’s eyes was not in his line; but he obeyed nevertheless. An hour and a half later he returned, to be thrust unceremoniously into a waiting cab by The Thinking Machine. The cab rattled away toward South Station, where the two men caught a train, just about to move out for Springfield. Once settled in their seats, the scientist turned to Hatch, who was nearly suffocating with suppressed information.
“Well?” he asked.
“I found out several things,” the reporter burst out. “First, Miss Wallack’s leading man, Langdon Mason, who has been in love with her for three years, bought the candy at Schuyler’s in Springfield early Saturday evening before he went to the theater. He told me so himself rather reluctantly; but I—I made him say it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed The Thinking Machine. It was a most unequivocal ejaculation. “How many pieces of candy are out of the box?”
“Only three,” explained Hatch. “Miss Wallack’s things were packed into the open trunk in her dressing room, the candy with them. I induced the manager—”
“Yes, yes, yes!” interrupted The Thinking Machine impatiently. “What sort of eyes has Mason? What colour?”
“Blue, frank in expression, nothing unusual at all,” said the reporter.
“And the others?”
“I didn’t quite know what you meant by studying their eyes, so I got a set of photographs. I thought perhaps they might help.”
“Excellent, Excellent!” commented The Thinking Machine. He shuffled the pictures through his fingers, stopping now and then to study one, and to read the name printed below. “Is that the leading man?” he asked at last, and handed one to Hatch.
“Yes.”
Professor Van Dusen did not speak again. The train pulled into Springfield at nine-twenty. Hatch followed the scientist without a word into a cab.
“Schuyler’s candy store,” quickly commanded The Thinking Machine. “Hurry.”
The cab rushed off through the night. Ten minutes later it stopped before a brilliantly lighted candy store. The Thinking Machine led the way inside and approached the girl behind the chocolate counter.
“Will you please tell me if you remember this man’s face?” he asked as he produced Mason’s photograph.
“Oh, yes, I remember him,” the girl replied. “He’s an actor.”
“Did he buy a small box of chocolates of you Saturday evening early?” was the next question.
“Yes. I recall it because he seemed to be in a hurry; in fact, I believe he said he was anxious to get to the theater to pack.”
“And do you recall that this
