know of the existence of these.”
“May I have these?” asked The Thinking Machine.
“Yes. They are of no consequence.”
“Now let’s see what is in the secret vault,” the scientist went on.
He arose and led the way again into the cellar, lighting his path with the electric bulb. Stockton followed immediately behind, then came Miss Devan, her white dressing gown trailing mystically in the dim light, and last came Hatch. The Thinking Machine went straight to that spot where he and Hatch had been when Stockton had fired at them. Again the rays of the light revealed the tiny door set into the wall of the cellar. The door opened readily at his touch; the small vault was empty.
Intent on his examination of this, The Thinking Machine was oblivious for a moment to what was happening. Suddenly there came again a pistol shot, followed instantly by a woman’s scream.
“My God, he’s killed himself. He’s killed himself.”
It was Miss Devan’s voice.
V
When The Thinking Machine flashed his light back into the gloom of the cellar, he saw Miss Devan and Hatch leaning over the prostrate figure of John Stockton. The latter’s face was perfectly white save just at the edge of the hair, where there was a trickle of red. In his right hand he clasped a revolver.
“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed the scientist. “What is it?’”
“Stockton shot himself,” said Hatch, and there was excitement in his tone.
On his knees the scientist made a hurried examination of the wounded man, then suddenly—it may have been inadvertently—he flashed the light in the face of Miss Devan.
“Where were you?” he demanded quickly.
“Just behind him,” said the girl. “Will he die? Is it fatal?”
“Hopeless,” said the scientist. “Let’s get him upstairs.”
The unconscious man was lifted and with Hatch leading was again taken to the room which they had left only a few minutes before. Hatch stood by helplessly while The Thinking Machine, in his capacity of physician, made a more minute examination of the wound. The bullet mark just above the right temple was almost bloodless; around it there were the unmistakeable marks of burned powder.
“Help me just a moment, Miss Devan,” requested The Thinking Machine, as he bound an improvised handkerchief bandage about the head. Miss Devan tied the final knots of the bandage and The Thinking Machine studied her hands closely as she did so. When the work was completed he turned to her in a most matter of fact way.
“Why did you shoot him?” he asked.
“I—I—” stammered the girl, “I didn’t shoot him, he shot himself.”
“How come those powder marks on your right hand?”
Miss Devan glanced down at her right hand, and the color which had been in her face faded as if by magic. There was fear, now, in her manner.
“I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “Surely you don’t think that I—”
“Mr. Hatch, telephone at once for an ambulance and then see if it is possible to get Detective Mallory here immediately. I shall give Miss Devan into custody on the charge of shooting this man.”
The girl stared at him dully for a moment and then dropped back into a chair with dead white face and fear-distended eyes. Hatch went out, seeking a telephone, and for a time Miss Devan sat silent, as if dazed. Finally, with an effort, she aroused herself and facing The Thinking Machine defiantly, burst out:
“I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t, I didn’t. He did it himself.”
The long, slender fingers of The Thinking Machine closed on the revolver and gently removed it from the hand of the wounded man.
“Ah, I was mistaken,” he said suddenly, “he was not as badly wounded as I thought. See! He is reviving.”
“Reviving,” exclaimed Miss Devan. “Won’t he die, then?’”
“Why?” asked The Thinking Machine sharply.
“It seems so pitiful, almost a confession of guilt,” she hurriedly exclaimed. “Won’t he die?”
Gradually the color was coming back into Stockton’s face. The Thinking Machine bending over him, with one hand on the heart, saw the eyelids quiver and then slowly the eyes opened. Almost immediately the strength of the heart beat grew perceptibly stronger. Stockton stared at him a moment, then wearily his eyelids drooped again.
“Why did Miss Devan shoot you?” The Thinking Machine demanded.
There was a pause and the eyes opened for the second time. Miss Devan stood within range of the glance, her hands outstretched entreatingly toward Stockton.
“Why did she shoot you?” repeated The Thinking Machine.
“She—did—not,” said Stockton slowly. “I—did—it—myself.”
For an instant there was a little wrinkle of perplexity on the brow of The Thinking Machine and then it passed.
“Purposely?” he asked.
“I did it myself.”
Again the eyes closed and Stockton seemed to be passing into unconsciousness. The Thinking Machine glanced up to find an infinite expression of relief on Miss Devan’s face. His own manner changed; became almost abject, in fact, as he turned to her again.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I made a mistake.”
“Will he die?”
“No, that was another mistake. He will recover.”
Within a few moments a City Hospital ambulance rattled up to the door and John Stockton was removed. It was with a feeling of pity that Hatch assisted Miss Devan, now almost in a fainting condition, to her room. The Thinking Machine had previously given her a slight stimulant. Detective Mallory had not answered the call by telephone.
The Thinking Machine and Hatch returned to Boston. At the Park Street subway they separated, after The Thinking Machine had given certain instructions. Hatch spent most of the following day carrying out these instructions. First he went to see Dr. Benton, the physician who issued the death certificate on which Pomeroy Stockton was buried. Dr. Benton was considerably alarmed when the reporter broached the subject of his visit. After a time he talked freely of the case.
“I have known John Stockton since we were in college together,” he said, “and I believe him to be one of the few really good men I know. I can’t believe otherwise. Singularly enough, he is also one of the few good men who has made his own fortune. There is nothing hypocritical about him.
“Immediately after his father was found dead, he telephoned me and I went out to the house in Dorchester. He explained then that it was apparent Pomeroy Stockton had committed suicide. He dreaded the disgrace that
