"Telegraph operator?" Hatch repeated.
"That's what I said – telegraph operator!" replied the scientist irritably. "Goodbye."
Hatch smiled whimsically at the other end as he heard the receiver banged on the hook – smiled because he knew the eccentric ways of this singular man, whose mind so accurately illuminated every problem to which it was directed. Then he went out to the telegraph room and borrowed the principal operator. They were in the little room on the top floor at precisely fifteen minutes of one.
The operator glanced about in astonishment. The room was still unfurnished, save for the telephone box on the wall.
"What do I do?" he asked The Thinking Machine.
"I'll tell you when the time comes," responded the scientist, as he glanced at his watch.
At three minutes of one o'clock he handed a sheet of blank paper to the operator, and gave him final instructions.
There was ludicrous mystification on the operator's face; but he obeyed orders, grinning cheerfully at Hatch as he tilted his cigar up to keep the smoke out of his eyes. The Thinking Machine stood impatiently looking on, watch in hand. Hatch didn't know what was happening, but he was interested.
At last the operator heard something. His face became suddenly alert. He continued to listen for a moment, and then came a smile of recognition.
Less than ten minutes after Miss Winthrop had handed over the typewritten letters of instruction to Grayson for signature, and while he still sat turning them over in his hands, the door opened and The Thinking Machine entered. He tossed a folded sheet of paper on the desk before Grayson, and went straight to Miss Winthrop.
"So you did know Mr. Ralph Matthews after all?" he inquired.
The girl rose from her desk, and a flash of some subtle emotion passed over her face. "What do you mean, sir?" she demanded.
"You might as well remove the silver box," The Thinking Machine went on mercilessly. "There is no further need of the connection."
Miss Winthrop glanced down at the telephone extension on her desk, and her hand darted toward it. The silver "vanity" box was directly under the receiver, supporting it, so that all weight was removed from the hook, and the line was open. She snatched the box and the receiver dropped back on the hook. The Thinking Machine turned to Grayson.
"It was Miss Winthrop," he said.
"Miss Winthrop!" exclaimed Grayson, "I can't believe it!"
"Read the paper I gave you, Mr. Grayson," directed The Thinking Machine coldly. "Perhaps that will enlighten her."
The financier opened the sheet, which had remained folded in his hand, and glanced at what was written there. Slowly he read it aloud: "Peabody – Sell ten thousand shares L. & W. at 97. McCracken Co. – Sell ten thousand shares L. & W. at 97." He read on down the list, bewildered. Then gradually, as he realized the import of what he read, there came a hardening of the lines about his mouth.
"I understand, Miss Winthrop," he said at last. "This is the substance of the orders I dictated, and in some way you made them known to persons for whom they were not intended. I don't know how you did it, of course; but I understand that you did do it, so – " He stepped to the door and opened it with grave courtesy. "You may go now."
Miss Winthrop made no plea – merely bowed and went out. Grayson stood staring after her for a moment, then turned to The Thinking Machine and motioned him to a chair. "What happened?" he asked briskly.
"Miss Winthrop is a tremendously clever woman," replied The Thinking Machine. "She neglected to tell you, however, that besides being a stenographer and typist she is also a telegraph operator. She is so expert in each of her lines that she combined the two, if I may say it that way. In other words, in writing on the typewriter, she was clever enough to be able to give the click of the machine the patterns in the Morse telegraphic code– so that another telegraph operator at the other end of the 'phone could hear her machine and translate the clicks into words."
Grayson sat staring at him incredulously. "I still don't understand," he said finally.
The Thinking Machine rose and went to Miss Winthrop's desk. "Here is an extension telephone with the receiver on the hook. It happens that the little silver box which you gave Miss Winthrop is just tall enough to lift this receiver clear of the hook, and the minute the receiver is off the hook the line is open. When you were at your desk and she was here, you couldn't see this telephone; therefore it was a simple matter for her to lift the receiver, and place the silver box underneath, thus holding the line open permanently. That being true, the sound of the typewriter —the striking of the keys– would go over the open wire to whoever was listening at the other end. Then, if the striking of the keys typed out your letters and, by their frequency and pauses, simultaneously tapped out telegraphic code, an outside operator could read your letters at the same moment they were being written. That is all. It required extreme concentration on Miss Winthrop's part to type accurately in Morse rhythms."