wrested it away.
“All right,” he sang out. “I’ve got it.”
The electric light which he had dashed from the hand of The Thinking Machine gleamed again through the cellar and fell upon the face of John Stockton, helpless and gasping in the hands of the reporter.
“Well?” asked Stockton calmly. “Are you burglars or what?”
“Let’s go upstairs to the light,” suggested The Thinking Machine.
It was under these peculiar circumstances that the scientist came face to face for the first time with John Stockton. Hatch introduced the two men in a most matter-of-fact tone and restored to Stockton the revolver. This was suggested by a nod of the scientist’s head. Stockton laid the revolver on a table.
“Why did you try to kill us?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“I presumed you were burglars,” was the reply. “I heard the noise down stairs and came down to investigate.”
“I thought you lived on Beacon Street,” said the scientist.
“I do, but I came here tonight on a little business, which is all my own, and happened to hear you. What were you doing in the cellar?”
“How long have you been here?”
“Five or ten minutes.”
“Have you a key to this house?”
“I have had one for many years. What is all this, anyway? How did you get in this house? What right had you here?”
“Is Miss Devan in the house tonight?” asked The Thinking Machine, entirely disregarding the other’s questions.
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“You haven’t seen her, of course?”
“Certainly not.”
“And you came here secretly without her knowledge?”
Stockton shrugged his shoulders and was silent. The Thinking Machine raised himself on the chair on which he had been sitting and squinted steadily into Stockton’s eyes. When he spoke it was to Hatch, but his gaze did not waver.
“Arouse the servants, find where Miss Devan’s room is, and see if anything has happened to her,” he directed.
“I think that will be unwise,” broke in Stockton quickly.
“Why?”
“If I may put it on personal grounds,” said Stockton, “I would ask as a favor that you do not make known my visit here, or your own for that matter, to Miss Devan.”
There was a certain uneasiness in the man’s attitude, a certain eagerness to keep things away from Miss Devan that spurred Hatch to instant action. He went out of the room hurriedly and ten minutes later Miss Devan, who had dressed quickly, came into the room with him. The servants stood outside in the hall, all curiosity. The closed door barred them from knowledge of what was happening.
There was a little dramatic pause as Miss Devan entered and Stockton arose from his seat. The Thinking Machine glanced from one to the other. He noted the pallor of the girl’s face and the frank embarrassment of Stockton.
“What is it?” asked Miss Devan, and her voice trembled a little. “Why are you all here? What has happened?”
“Mr. Stockton came here tonight,” The Thinking Machine began quietly, “to remove the contents from the locked vault in the cellar. He came without your knowledge and found us ahead of him. Mr. Hatch and myself are here in the course of our inquiry into the matter which you placed in my hands. We also came without your knowledge. I considered this best. Mr. Stockton was very anxious that his visit should be kept from you. Have you anything to say now?”
The girl turned on Stockton with magnificent scorn. Accusation was in her very attitude. Her small hand was pointed directly at Stockton and into his face there came a strange emotion, which he struggled to repress.
“Murderer! Thief!” the girl almost hissed.
“Do you know why he came?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“He came to rob the vault, as you said,” said the girl, fiercely. “It was because my father would not give him the secret of his last invention that this man killed him. How he compelled him to write that letter I don’t know.”
“Elizabeth, for God’s sake what are you saying?” asked Stockton with ashen face.
“His greed is so great that he wanted all of my father’s estate,” the girl went on impetuously. “He was not content that I should get even a small part of it.”
“Elizabeth, Elizabeth!” said Stockton, as he leaned forward with his head in his hands.
“What do you know about this secret vault?” asked the scientist.
“I—I—have always thought there was a secret vault in the cellar,” the girl explained. “I may say I know there was one because those things my father took the greatest care of were always disposed of by him somewhere in the house. I can imagine no other place than the cellar.”
There was a long pause. The girl stood rigid, staring down at the bowed figure of Stockton with not a gleam of pity in her face. Hatch caught the expression and it occurred to him for the first time that Miss Devan was vindictive. He was more convinced than ever that there had been some long-standing feud between these two. The Thinking Machine broke the long silence.
“Do you happen to know, Miss Devan, that page seven of the Bible which you found hidden in Mr. Stockton’s place is missing?”
“I didn’t notice,” said the girl.
Stockton had arisen with the words and now stood with white face and listening intently.
“Did you ever happen to see a page seven in that Bible?” the scientist asked.
“I don’t recall.”
“What were you doing in my rooms?” demanded Stockton of the girl.
“Why did you tear out page seven?” asked The Thinking Machine.
Stockton thought the question was addressed to him and turned to answer. Then he saw it was unmistakably a question to Miss Devan and turned again to her.
“I didn’t tear it out,” exclaimed Miss Devan. “I never saw it. I don’t know what you mean.”
The Thinking Machine made an impatient gesture with his hands; his next question was to Stockton.
“Have you a sample of your father’s handwriting?’”
“Several,” said Stockton. “Here are three or four letters from him.”
Miss Devan gasped a little as if startled and Stockton produced the letters and handed them to The Thinking Machine. The latter glanced over two of them.
“I
