"Certainly I am not Miss Austin," responded Cabell, fiercely.
"Have you a mirror in these apartments about twelve inches by twelve inches?" asked The Thinking Machine, irrelevantly.
"I--I don't know," stammered the young man. "I--have we, Jean?"
"_Oui_," replied the valet.
"Yes," snapped The Thinking Machine. "Talk English, please. May I see it?"
The valet, without a word but with a sullen glance at the questioner, turned and left the room. He returned after a moment with the mirror. The Thinking Machine carefully examined the frame, top and bottom and on both sides. At last he looked up; again the valet was bending over a suit case.
"Do you use gas in these apartments?" the scientist asked suddenly.
"No," was the bewildered response. "What is all this, anyway?"
Without answering, The Thinking Machine drew a chair up under the chandelier where the gas and electric fixtures were and began to finger the gas tips. After awhile he climbed down and passed into the next room, with Hatch and Cabell, both hopelessly mystified, following. There the scientist went through the same process of fingering the gas jets. Finally, one of the gas tips came out in his hand.
"Ah," he exclaimed, suddenly, and Hatch knew the note of triumph in it. The jet from which the tip came was just on a level with his shoulder, set between a dressing table and a window. He leaned over and squinted at the gas pipe closely. Then he returned to the room where the valet was.