Hatch arose and followed the slight figure of the scientist through the front door, and toward the water. A light glimmered down near the water and was dimly reflected; above, the clouds had cleared somewhat and the moon was struggling through.
"What hit me, anyhow?" Hatch demanded, as they went. He rubbed his head ruefully.
"The ghost," said the scientist. "I think probably he has a bullet in him now--the ghost."
Then the figure of the town constable separated itself from the night and approached.
"Who's that?"
"Professor Van Dusen and Mr. Hatch."
"Mr. Weston got him all right," said the constable, and there was satisfaction in his tone. "He tried to come out the back way, but I had that fastened, as you told me, and he came through the front way. Mr. Weston tried to stop him, and he raised the knife to stick him; then Mr. Weston shot. It broke his arm, I think. Mr. Weston is down there with him now."
The Thinking Machine turned to the reporter.
"Wait here for me, with the constable," he directed. "If the man is hurt he needs attention. I happen to be a doctor; I can aid him. Don't come unless I call."
For a long while the constable and the reporter waited. The constable talked, talked with all the bottled-up vigor of days. Hatch listened impatiently; he was eager to go down there where The Thinking Machine and Weston and the phantom were.