"Well, if it's plain aphasia, as you say," the reporter put in, "it seems rather difficult to imagine that the attack came at a moment when it was necessary to get rid of him."
"I say it _seems_ like aphasia," said the scientist, crustily. "There are known drugs which will produce the identical effect if properly administered."
"Oh," said Hatch. He was beginning to see.
"There is one drug particularly, made in India, and not unlike hasheesh. In a case of this kind anything is possible. To-morrow I shall ask you to take Mr. Doane down through the financial district, as an experiment. When you go there I want you particularly to get him to the sound of the 'ticker.' It will be an interesting experiment."
The reporter went away and The Thinking Machine sent a telegram to the Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana:
"To whom did you issue hundred-dollar bills, series B, numbering 846380 to 846395 inclusive? Please answer."
It was ten o'clock next day when Hatch called on The Thinking Machine. There he was introduced to John Doane, the man who was lost. The Thinking Machine was asking questions of Mr. Doane when Hatch was ushered in.
"Did the map recall nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Montana, Montana, Montana," the scientist repeated monotonously; "think of it. Butte, Montana."
Doane shook his head hopelessly, sadly.
"Cowboy, cowboy. Did you ever see a cowboy?" Again the head shake.
"Coyote--something like a wolf--coyote. Don't you recall ever having seen one?"
"I'm afraid it's hopeless," remarked the other.
There was a note of more than ordinary irritation in The Thinking Machine's voice when he turned to Hatch.
"Mr. Hatch, will you walk through the financial district with Mr. Doane?" he asked. "Please go to the places I suggested."
So it came to pass that the reporter and Doane went out together, walking through the crowded, hurrying, bustling financial district. The first place visited was a private room where market quotations were displayed on a blackboard. Mr. Doane was interested, but the scene seemed to suggest nothing.
He looked upon it all as any stranger might have done. After a time they passed out. Suddenly a man came running toward them--evidently a broker.
"What's the matter?" asked another.
"Montana copper's gone to smash," was the reply.
"_Copper!_ _Copper!_" gasped Doane suddenly.
Hatch looked around quickly at his companion. Doane's face was a study. On it was half realization and a deep perplexed wrinkle, a glimmer even of excitement.
"Copper!!" he repeated.
"Does the word mean anything to you?" asked Hatch quickly. "Copper--metal, you know."
"Copper, copper, copper," the other repeated. Then, as Hatch looked, the queer expression faded; there came again utter hopelessness.
There are many men with powerful names who operate in the Street--some of them in copper. Hatch led Doane straight to the office of one of these men and there introduced him to a partner in the business.
"We want to talk about copper a little," Hatch explained, still eying his companion.
"Do you want to buy or sell?" asked the broker.
"Sell," said Doane suddenly. "Sell, sell, sell copper. That's it--copper."
He turned to Hatch, stared at him dully a moment, a deathly pallor came over his face, then, with upraised hands, fell senseless.
III.
Still unconscious, the man of mystery was removed to the home of The Thinking Machine and there stretched out on a sofa. The Thinking Machine was bending over him, this time in his capacity of physician, making an examination. Hatch stood by, looking on curiously.
"I never saw anything like it," Hatch remarked. "He just threw up his hands and collapsed. He hasn't been conscious since."
"It may be that when he comes to he will have recovered his memory, and in that event he will have absolutely no recollection whatever of you and me," explained The Thinking Machine.
Doane moved a little at last, and under a stimulant the color began to creep back into his pallid face.
"Just what was said, Mr. Hatch, before he collapsed?" asked the scientist.
Hatch explained, repeating the conversation as he remembered it.
"And he said 'sell,'" mused The Thinking Machine. "In other words, he thinks--or imagines he knows--that copper is to drop. I believe the first remark he heard was that copper had gone to smash--down, I presume that means?"
"Yes," the reporter replied.
Half an hour later John Doane sat up on the couch and looked about the room.
"Ah, Professor," he remarked. "I fainted, didn't I?"
The Thinking Machine was disappointed because his patient had not recovered memory with consciousness. The remark showed that he was still in the same mental condition--the man who was lost.
"Sell copper, sell, sell, sell," repeated The Thinking Machine, commandingly.
"Yes, yes, sell," was the reply.
The reflection of some great mental struggle was on Doane's face; he was seeking to recall something which persistently eluded him.
"Copper, copper," the scientist repeated, and he exhibited a penny.
"Yes, copper," said Doane. "I know. A penny."
"Why did you say sell copper?"
"I don't know," was the weary reply. "It seemed to be an unconscious act entirely. I don't know."
He clasped and unclasped his hands nervously and sat for a long time dully staring at the floor. The fight for memory was a dramatic one.
"It seemed to me," Doane explained after awhile, "that the word copper touched some responsive chord in my memory, then it was lost again. Some time in the past, I think, I must have had something to do with copper."
"Yes," said The Thinking Machine, and he rubbed his slender fingers briskly. "Now you are coming around again."
His remarks were interrupted by the appearance of Martha at the door with a telegram. The Thinking Machine opened it hastily. What he saw perplexed him again.
"Dear me! Most extraordinary!" he exclaimed. "What is it?" asked Hatch, curiously.
The scientist turned to Doane again.
"Do you happen to remember Preston Bell?" he demanded, emphasizing the name explosively.
"Preston Bell?" the other repeated, and again the mental struggle was apparent on his face. "Preston Bell!"
"Cashier of the Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana?" urged the other, still in an emphatic tone. "Cashier Bell?"
He leaned forward eagerly and watched the face of his patient; Hatch unconsciously did the same. Once there was almost realization, and seeing it The Thinking Machine sought to bring back full memory.
"Bell, cashier, copper," he repeated, time after time.
The flash of realization which had been on Doane's face passed, and there came infinite weariness--the weariness of one who is ill.
"I don't remember," he said at last. "I'm very tired."
"Stretch out there on the couch and go to sleep," advised The Thinking Machine, and he arose to arrange a pillow. "Sleep will do you more good than anything else right now. But before you lie down, let me have, please, a few of those hundred-dollar bills you found."
Doane extended the roll of money, and then slept like a child. It was uncanny to Hatch, who had been a deeply interested spectator.
The Thinking Machine ran over the bills and finally selected fifteen of them--bills that were new and crisp. They were of an issue by the Blank National Bank of Butte, Montana. The Thinking Machine stared at the money closely, then handed it to Hatch.
"Does that look like counterfeit to you?" he asked.
"Counterfeit?" gasped Hatch. "Counterfeit?" he repeated. He took the bills and examined them. "So far as I can see they seem to be good," he went on, "though I have never had enough experience with one-hundred-dollar bills to qualify as an expert."
"Do you know an expert?"
"Yes."
"See him immediately. Take fifteen bills and ask him to pass on them, each and every one. Tell him you have reason--excellent reason--to believe that they are counterfeit. When he gives his opinion come back to me."
Hatch went away with the money in his pocket. Then The Thinking Machine wrote another telegram, addressed to President Bell, cashier of the Butte Bank. It was as follows:
"Please send me full details of the manner in which money previously described was lost, with names of all persons who might have had any knowledge of the matter. Highly important to your bank and to justice. Will communicate in detail on receipt of your answer."
Then, while his visitor slept, The Thinking Machine quietly removed his shoes and examined them. He found, almost worn away, the name of the maker. This was subjected to close scrutiny under the magnifying glass, after which The Thinking Machine arose with a perceptible expression of relief on his face.
"Why didn't I think of that before?" he demanded of himself.
Then other telegrams went into the West. One was to a customs shoemaker in Denver, Colorado:
"To what financier or banker have you sold within three months a pair of shoes, Senate brand, calfskin blucher, number eight, D last? Do you know John Doane?"
A second telegram went to the Chief of Police of Denver. It was:
"Please wire if any financier, banker or business man has been out of your city for five weeks or more, presumably on business trip. Do you know John Doane?"