The problem of Cell 13
already. This man, Gustave Meyer, is my husband."
She paused and fumbled nervously at the veil fastening at her throat.
Silence lay over the room; The Thinking Machine reached behind him and
picked up the shabby-looking gripsack which had passed unnoticed.
"Are there any more questions?" the girl asked, at last.
"I think not," said The Thinking Machine.
"And, Mr. Dunston, you will give me credit for some good, won't
you--some good in that I loved you?" she pleaded.
"My God!" he exclaimed in a sudden burst of feeling.
"Look out!" shouted The Thinking Machine.
He had seen the girl's hand fly to her hat, saw it drawn suddenly
away, saw something slender flash at her breast. But it was too late.
She had driven a heavy hat pin straight through her breast, piercing
the heart. She died in the arms of the man she loved, with his tears
on her face.
Detective Mallory appeared before the two prisoners in an adjoining
room.
"Miss Clarke has confessed," he said.
"Well, the little devil!" exclaimed Meyer. "I knew some day she would
throw us. I'll kill her!"
"It isn't necessary," remarked Mallory.
* * * * * *
In the room where the girl lay The Thinking Machine pushed with his
foot the shabby-looking grip toward President Fraser and West.
"There's the money," he said.
"Where--how did you get it?"
"Ask Mr. Hatch."
"Professor Van Dusen told me to search the rooms of those men in
there, find the shabbiest looking bag or receptacle that was securely
locked, and bring it to him. I--I did so. I found it under the bed,
but I didn't know what was in it until he opened it."
THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO
Where the light slants down softly into one corner of a noted art
museum in Boston there hangs a large picture. Its title is
"Fulfillment." Discriminating art critics have alternately raved at it
and praised it; from the day it appeared there it has been a fruitful
source of acrimonious discussion. As for the public, it accepts the
picture as a startling, amazing thing of beauty, and there is always a
crowd around it.
"Fulfillment" is typified by a woman. She stands boldly forth against
a languorous background of deep tones. Flesh tints are daringly laid
on the semi-nude figure, diaphanous draperies hide, yet, reveal, the
exquisite lines of the body. Her arms are outstretched straight toward
the spectator, the black hair ripples down over her shoulders, the red
lips are slightly parted. The mysteries of complete achievement and
perfect life lie in her eyes.
Into this picture the artist wove the spiritual and the worldly; here
he placed on canvas an elusive portrayal of success in its fullest and
widest meaning. One's first impression of the picture is that it is
sensual; another glance shows the underlying typification of success,
and love and life are there. One by one the qualities stand forth.
The artist was Constans St. George. After the first flurry of
excitement which the picture caused there came a whirlwind of
criticism. Then the artist, who had labored for months on the work
which he had intended and which proved to be his masterpiece,
collapsed. Some said it was overwork--they were partly right; others
that it was grief at the attacks of critics who did not see beyond the
surface of the painting. Perhaps they, too, were partly right.
However that may be, it is a fact that for several months after the
picture was exhibited St. George was in a sanitarium. The physicians
said it was nervous collapse--a total breaking-down, and there were
fears for his sanity. At length there came an improvement in his
condition, and he returned to the world. Since then he had lived
quietly in his studio, one of many in a large office building. From
time to time he had been approached with offers for the picture, but
always he refused to sell. A New York millionaire made a flat
proposition of fifty thousand dollars, which was as flatly refused.
The artist loved the picture as a child of his own brain; every day he
visited the museum where it was exhibited and stood looking at it with
something almost like adoration in his eyes. Then he went away
quietly, tugging at his straggling beard and with the dim blindness of
tears in his eyes. He never spoke to anyone; and always avoided that
moment when a crowd was about.
Whatever the verdict of the critics or of the public on "Fulfillment,"
it was an admitted fact that the artist had placed on canvas a
representation of a wonderfully beautiful woman. Therefore, after
awhile the question of who had been the model for "Fulfillment" was
aroused. No one knew, apparently. Artists who knew St. George could
give no idea--they only knew that the woman who had posed was not a
professional model.
This led to speculation, in which the names of some of the most
beautiful women in the United States were mentioned. Then a romance
was woven. This was that the artist was in love with the original and
that his collapse was partly due to her refusal to wed him. This
story, as it went, was elaborated until the artist was said to be
pining away for love of one whom he had immortalized in oils.
As the story grew it gained credence, and a search was still made
occasionally for the model. Half a dozen times Hutchinson Hatch, a
newspaper reporter of more than usual astuteness, had been on the
story without success; he had seen and studied the picture until every
line of it was firmly in his mind. He had seen and talked to St.
George twice. The artist would answer no questions as to the identity
of the model.
This, then, was the situation on the morning of Friday, November 27,
when Hatch entered the reportorial rooms of his newspaper. At sight of
him the City Editor removed his cigar, placed it carefully on the
"official block" which adorned his flat-topped desk, and called to the
reporter.
"Girl reported missing," he said, brusquely. "Name is Grace Field, and
she lived at No. 195 ---- Street, Dorchester. Employed in the
photographic department of the Star, a big department store. Report of
her disappearance made to the police early to-day by Ellen Stanford,
her roommate, also employed at the Star. Jump out on it and get all
you can. Here is the official police description."
Hatch took a slip of paper and read:
"Grace Field, twenty-one years, five feet seven inches tall, weight
151 pounds, profuse black hair, dark-brown eyes, superb figure, oval
face, said to be beautiful."
Then the description went into details of her dress add other things
which the police note in their minute records for a search. Hatch
absorbed all these things and left his office. He went first to the
department store, where he was told Miss Stanford had not appeared
that day, sending a note that she was ill.
From the store Hatch went at once to the address given in Dorchester.
Miss Stanford was in. Would she see a reporter? Yes. So Hatch was
ushered into the modest little parlor of a boarding-house, and after
awhile Miss Stanford entered. She was a petite blonde, with pink
cheeks and blue eyes, now reddened by weeping.
Briefly Hatch explained the purpose of his visit--an effort to find
Grace Field, and Miss Stanford eagerly and tearfully expressed herself
as willing to tell him all she knew.
"I have known Grace for five months," she explained; "that is, from
the time she came to work at the Star. Her counter is next to mine. A
friendship grew up between us, and we began rooming together. Each of
us is alone in the East. She comes from the West, somewhere in Nevada,
and I come from Quebec.
"Grace has never said much about herself, but I know that she had been
in Boston a year or so before I met her. She lived somewhere in
Brookline, I believe, but it seems that she had some funds and did not
go to work until she came to the Star. This is as I understand it.
"Three days ago, on Tuesday it was, there was a letter for Grace when
we came in from work. It seemed to agitate her, although she said
nothing to me about what was in it, and I did not ask. She did not
sleep well that night, but next morning, when we started to work, she
seemed all right. That is, she was all right until we got to the
subway station, and then she told me to go on to the store, saying she
would be there after awhile.
"I left her, and at her request explained to the manager of our floor
that she would be late. From that time to this no one has seen her or
heard of her. I don't know where she could have gone," and the girl
burst into tears. "I'm sure something dreadful has happened to her."
"Possibly an elopement?" Hatch suggested.
"No," said the girl, quickly. "No. She was in love, but the man she
was in love with has not heard of her either. I saw him the night
after she disappeared. He called here and asked for her, and seemed
surprised that she had not returned home, or had not been at work."
"What's his name?" asked Hatch.
"He's a clerk in a bank," said Miss Stanford. "His name is
Willis--Victor Willis. If she had eloped with him I would not have
been surprised, but I am positive she did not, and if she did not,
where is she?"
"Were there any other admirers you know of?" Hatch asked.
"No," said the girl, stoutly. "There may have been others who admired
her, but none she cared for. She has told me too much--I--I know," she
faltered.
"How long have you known Mr. Willis?" asked Hatch.
The girl's face flamed scarlet instantly.
"Only since I've known Grace," she replied. "She introduced us."
"Has Mr. Willis ever shown you any attention?"
"Certainly not," Miss Stanford flashed, angrily. "All his attention
was for Grace."
There was the least trace of bitterness in the tone, and Hatch
imagined he read it aright. Willis was a man whom both perhaps loved;
it might be in that event that Miss Stanford knew more than she had
said of the whereabouts of Grace Field. The next step was to see
Willis.
"I suppose you'll do everything possible to find Miss Field?" he
asked.
"Certainly," said the girl.
"Have you her photograph?"
"I have one, yes, but I don't think--I don't believe Grace----"
"Would like to have it published?" asked Hatch. "Possibly not, under
ordinary circumstances--but now that she is missing it is the surest
way of getting a trace of her. Will you give it to me?"
Miss Stanford was silent for a time. Then apparently she made up her
mind, for she arose.
"It might be well, too," Hatch suggested, "to see if you can find the
letter you mentioned."
The girl nodded and went out. When she returned she had a photograph
in her hand; a glimpse of it told Hatch it was a bust picture of a
woman in evening dress. The girl was studying a scrap of paper.
"What is it?" asked Hatch, quickly.
"I don't know," she responded. "I was searching for the letter when I
remembered she frequently tore them up and dropped them into the
waste-basket. It had been emptied every day, but I looked and
found this clinging to the bottom, caught between the cane."
"May I see it?" asked the reporter.
The girl handed it to him. It was evidently a piece of a letter torn
from the outer edge just where the paper was folded to put it into the
envelope. On it were these words and detached letters, written in a
bold hand:
sday
ill you
to the
ho
Hatch's eyes opened wide.
"Do you know the handwriting?" he asked.
The girl faltered an instant.
"No," she answered, finally.
Hatch studied her face a moment with cold eyes, then turned the scrap
of paper over. The other side was blank. Staring down at it he veiled
a glitter of anxious interest.
"And the picture?" he asked, quietly.
The girl handed him the photograph. Hatch took it and as he