There on the floor lay huddled the figure of a man. Blood had run from several wounds on his head. The Thinking Machine stooped a moment, and his slender fingers fumbled over the heart.
"Unconscious, that's all," he said, and he raised the man up.
"Victor Willis!" exclaimed Hatch.
"Victor Willis!" repeated The Thinking Machine, as if puzzled. "Are you sure?"
"Certain," said Hatch, positively. "It's the bank clerk."
"Then we are too late," declared the scientist.
He arose and looked about the room. A door to his right attracted his attention. He jerked it open and peered in. It was a clothes press. Another small door on the other side of the room was also thrown open. Here was a kitchenette, with a great quantity of canned stuffs.
The Thinking Machine went on into the little bedroom which Hatch had searched. He flung open the bathroom and peered in, only to shut it immediately. Then he tried the handle of another door, a closet. It was fastened.
"Ah!" he exclaimed.
Then on his hands and knees he sniffed at the crack between the door and the flooring. Suddenly, as if satisfied, he arose and stepped away from the door.