The irrelevancy of the question caused Hatch to smile in spite of himself.
"A brunette," he answered. "A pronounced brunette."
"Then," said The Thinking Machine, as if this were merely dependent upon or a part of the blonde or brunette proposition, "get immediately a picture of Mason somewhere--I suppose you can--go out and see that man with the smashed head and see if it is Mason. Let me know by 'phone."
"All right," said Hatch, rather hopelessly. "But it is impossible----"
"Don't say that," snapped The Thinking Machine. "Don't say that," he repeated, angrily. "It annoys me exceedingly."
It was nearly ten o'clock that night when Hatch again 'phoned to The Thinking Machine. He had found a photograph, he had seen the man with the smashed head. They were the same. He so informed The Thinking Machine.
"Ah," said that individual, quietly. "Did you find out about any gift that Reid might have made to Miss Dow?" he asked.
"Yes, a monogram belt buckle of gold," was the reply.
Hatch was over his head and knew it. He was finding out things and answering questions, which by the wildest stretch of his imagination, he could not bring to bear on the matter in hand--the mystery surrounding the murder of Marguerite Melrose, an actress.
"Meet me at my place here at one o'clock day after to-morrow," instructed The Thinking Machine. "Publish as little as you can of this matter until you see me. It's extraordinary--perfectly extraordinary. Good-by."