"You mean----"
The Thinking Machine waved his hand off into the vague night; it was a gesture which Hatch understood perfectly.
V.
Hutchinson Hatch was deeply thoughtful on the swift run back to the village. There he and The Thinking Machine took train to Boston. Hatch was turning over possibilities. Had Miss Dow eloped with some one besides Mason? There had been no other name mentioned. Was it possible that she killed Miss Melrose? Vaguely his mind clutched for a motive for this, yet none appeared, and he dismissed the idea with a laugh at its absurdity. Then, What? Where? How? Why?
"I suppose the story of an actress having been murdered in an automobile under mysterious circumstances would have been telegraphed all over the country, Mr. Hatch?" asked The Thinking Machine.
"Yes," said Hatch. "If you mean this story, there's not a city in the country that doesn't know of it by this time."
"It's perfectly wonderful, the resources of the press," the scientist mused.
Hatch nodded his acquiescence. He had hoped for a moment that The Thinking Machine had asked the question as a preliminary to something else, but that was apparently all. After awhile the train jerked a little and The Thinking Machine spoke again.
"I think, Mr. Hatch, I wouldn't yet print anything about the disappearance of Miss Dow," he said. "It might be unwise at present. No one else will find it out, so----"
"I understand," said Hatch. It was a command. "By the way," the other went on, "do you happen to remember the name of that Winter Street store that Curtis went in?"