After awhile the men separated. Manning was stopping at the Hotel Teutonic and willingly gave his name and permanent address to Hatch, explaining at the same time that he would be in the city for several days and was perfectly willing to help in any way he could. He took also the address of The Thinking Machine.
From the café Hatch and Doane returned to the scientist. They found him with two telegrams spread out on a table before him. Briefly Hatch told the story of the meeting with Manning, while Doane sank down with his head in his hands. The Thinking Machine listened without comment.
"Here," he said, at the conclusion of the recital, and he offered one of the telegrams to Hatch. "I got the name of a shoemaker from Mr. Doane's shoe and wired to him in Denver, asking if he had a record of the sale. This is the answer. Read it aloud."
Hatch did so.
"Shoes such as described made nine weeks ago for Preston Bell, cashier Blank National Bank of Butte. Don't know John Doane."
"Well--what----" Doane began, bewildered.
"_It means that you are Preston Bell_," said Hatch, emphatically.
"No," said The Thinking Machine, quickly. "It means that there is only a strong probability of it."
* * * * * *
The door bell rang. After a moment Martha appeared.
"A lady to see you, sir," she said.
"Her name?"
"Mrs. John Doane."
"Gentlemen, kindly step into the next room," requested The Thinking Machine.
Together Hatch and Doane passed through the door. There was an expression of--of--no man may say what--on Doane's face as he went.
"Show her in here, Martha," instructed the scientist.
There was a rustle of silk in the hall, the curtains on the door were pulled apart quickly and a richly gowned woman rushed into the room.
"My husband? Is he here?" she demanded, breathlessly. "I went to the hotel; they said he came here for treatment. Please, please, is he here?"
"A moment, madam," said The Thinking Machine. He stepped to the door through which Hatch and Doane had gone, and said something. One of them appeared in the door. It was Hutchinson Hatch.
"John, John, my darling husband," and the woman flung her arms about Hatch's neck. "Don't you know me?"
With blushing face Hatch looked over her shoulder into the eyes of The Thinking Machine, who stood briskly rubbing his hands. Never before in his long acquaintance with the scientist had Hatch seen him smile.
V.
For a time there was silence, broken only by sobs, as the woman clung frantically to Hatch, with her face buried on his shoulder. Then:
"Don't you remember me?" she asked again and again. "Your wife? Don't you remember me?"
Hatch could still see the trace of a smile on the scientist's face, and said nothing.
"You are positive this gentleman is your husband?" inquired The Thinking Machine, finally.
"Oh, I know," the woman sobbed. "Oh, John, don't you remember me?" She drew away a little and looked deeply into the reporter's eyes. "Don't you remember me, John?"
"Can't say that I ever saw you before," said Hatch, truthfully enough. "I--I--fact is----"
"Mr. Doane's memory is wholly gone now," explained The Thinking Machine. "Meanwhile, perhaps you would tell me something about him. He is my patient. I am particularly interested."
The voice was soothing; it had lost for the moment its perpetual irritation. The woman sat down beside Hatch. Her face, pretty enough in a bold sort of way, was turned to The Thinking Machine inquiringly. With one hand she stroked that of the reporter.
"Where are you from?" began the scientist. "I mean where is the home of John Doane?"
"In Buffalo," she replied, glibly. "Didn't he even remember that?"
"And what's his business?"
"His health has been bad for some time and recently he gave up active business," said the woman. "Previously he was connected with a bank."
"When did you see him last?"
"Six weeks ago. He left the house one day and I have never heard from him since. I had Pinkerton men searching and at last they reported he was at the Yarmouth Hotel. I came on immediately. And now we shall go back to Buffalo." She turned to Hatch with a languishing glance. "Shall we not, dear?"
"Whatever Professor Van Dusen thinks best," was the equivocal reply.
Slowly the glimmer of amusement was passing out of the squint eyes of The Thinking Machine; as Hatch looked he saw a hardening of the lines of the mouth. There was an explosion coming. He knew it. Yet when the scientist spoke his voice was more velvety than ever.
"Mrs. Doane, do you happen to be acquainted with a drug which produces temporary loss of memory?"
She stared at him, but did not lose her self-possession.
"No," she said finally. "Why?"
"You know, of course, that this man is _not_ your husband?"
This time the question had its effect. The woman arose suddenly, stared at the two men, and her face went white.
"Not?--not?--what do you mean?"
"I mean," and the voice reassumed its tone of irritation, "I mean that I shall send for the police and give you in their charge unless you tell me the truth about this affair. Is that perfectly clear to you?"
The woman's lips were pressed tightly together. She saw that she had fallen into some sort of a trap; her gloved hands were clenched fiercely; the pallor faded and a flush of anger came.
"Further, for fear you don't quite follow me even now," explained The Thinking Machine, "I will say that I know all about this copper deal of which this so-called John Doane was the victim. _I know his condition now_. If you tell the truth you may escape prison--if you don't, there is a long term, not only for you, but for your fellow-conspirators. Now will you talk?"
"No," said the woman. She arose as if to go out.
"Never mind that," said The Thinking Machine. "You had better stay where you are. You will be locked up at the proper moment. Mr. Hatch, please 'phone for Detective Mallory."
Hatch arose and passed into the adjoining room. "You tricked me," the woman screamed suddenly, fiercely.
"Yes," the other agreed, complacently. "Next time be sure you know your own husband. Meanwhile where is Harrison?"
"Not another word," was the quick reply.
"Very well," said the scientist, calmly. "Detective Mallory will be here in a few minutes. Meanwhile I'll lock this door."
"You have no right----" the woman began.
Without heeding the remark, The Thinking Machine passed into the adjoining room. There for half an hour he talked earnestly to Hatch and Doane. At the end of that time he sent a telegram to the manager of the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg, as follows:
"Does your visitors' book show any man, registered there in the month of January three years ago, whose first name is Harry or Henry? If so, please wire name and description, also name of man whose guest he was."
This telegram was dispatched. A few minutes later the door bell rang and Detective Mallory entered.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"A prisoner for you in the next room," was the reply. "A woman. I charge her with conspiracy to defraud a man who for the present we will call John Doane. That may or may not be his name."
"What do you know about it?" asked the detective.
"A great deal now--more after awhile. I shall tell you then. Meanwhile take this woman. You gentlemen, I should suggest, might go out somewhere this evening. If you drop by afterwards there may be an answer to a few telegrams which will make this matter clear."
Protestingly the mysterious woman was led away by Detective Mallory; and Doane and Hatch followed shortly after. The next act of The Thinking Machine was to write a telegram addressed to Mrs. Preston Bell, Butte, Montana. Here it is:
"Your husband suffering temporary mental trouble here. Can you come on immediately? Answer."
When the messenger boy came for the telegram he found a man on the stoop. The Thinking Machine received the telegram, and the man, who gave to Martha the name of Manning, was announced.
"Manning, too," mused the scientist. "Show him in."
"I don't know if you know why I am here," explained Manning.
"Oh, yes," said the scientist. "You have remembered Doane's name. What is it, please?"
Manning was too frankly surprised to answer and only stared at the scientist.
"Yes, that's right," he said finally, and he smiled. "His name is Pillsbury. I recall it now."
"And what made you recall it?"
"I noticed an advertisement in a magazine with the name in large letters. It instantly came to me that that was Doane's real name."
"Thanks," remarked the scientist. "And the woman--who is she?"
"What woman?" asked Manning.
"Never mind, then. I am deeply obliged for your information. I don't suppose you know anything else about it?"
"No," said Manning. He was a little bewildered, and after awhile went away.
For an hour or more The Thinking Machine sat with finger tips pressed together staring at the ceiling. His meditations were interrupted by Martha.
"Another telegram, sir."
The Thinking Machine took it eagerly. It was from the manager of the Lincoln Club in Pittsburg:
"Henry C. Carney, Harry Meltz, Henry Blake, Henry W. Tolman, Harry Pillsbury, Henry Calvert and Henry Louis Smith all visitors to dub in month you name. Which do you want to learn more about?"