warden laughed. “It didn’t make any particular impression on my mind. It was a month or six weeks ago.”
“Has he sworn at you since?” the scientist went on.
“No, I don’t think anyone has heard him swear since. He’s been remarkably well behaved.”
“Any callers?”
“Well, not for a long time. A physician came here to see him twice. There was something the matter with his throat, I think.”
“How did it happen that the prison physician didn’t attend him?” demanded The Thinking Machine curiously.
“He asked that an outside physician be called,” was the response. “He had twelve or fifteen dollars here in the office, and I paid the physician out of that.”
Some new line of thought had evidently been awakened in the scientist’s mind; for there came a subtle change in the drawn face, and for a long time he was silent.
“Do you happen to remember,” he asked slowly at last, “if the physician was called in before or after he stopped swearing?”
“After, I think,” the warden replied wearily. “What the deuce is all this about, anyway?” he demanded flatly after a moment.
“Throat trouble, you said. How did it affect him?”
“Made him a little hoarse, that’s all. The doctor told me it wasn’t anything particularly—probably the dampness in the cell or something.”
“And did you know the doctor who was called—know him personally?” demanded The Thinking Machine, and there was a strange, new gleam in the narrow eyes.
“Yes, quite well. I’ve known him for years. I let him in and let him out.”
The crabbed little scientist seemed almost disappointed. He dropped back again into the depths of the chair.
“Do you want to see Gilfoil?” asked the warden.
“Not yet,” was the reply; “but I should like you to walk down the corridor very, very softly and flash your light in Cell 9 and see if Convict 97 is there?”
The warden came to his feet suddenly. There was something in the tone which startled him; but the momentary shock was followed instantly by a little nervous laugh. No man knew better than he that Convict 97 was still there, yet to please this whimsical visitor he lighted his dark lantern and went out. He was gone only a couple of minutes, and when he returned there was a queer expression on his face—almost an awed expression.
“Well?” queried the scientist. “Was he asleep.”
“No,” replied the warden, “he wasn’t. He was down on his knees beside his cot, praying.”
The Thinking Machine arose and paced back and forth across the office two or three times. At last he turned to the warden. “Really, I hate to put you to so much trouble,” he said; “but believe me it is in the interests of justice. I should like personally to visit Cell 9 say in an hour from now after Convict 97 is asleep. Meanwhile, don’t let me disturb you. Go on about your affairs; I’ll wait.”
And then and there The Thinking Machine gave the warden a lesson in perfect repose. He glanced at the clock,—the hands indicated eight-forty,—then sat down again, and for one hour he sat there without the slightest movement to indicate even a casual interest in anybody or anything. The warden, busy with some accounts, glanced around curiously at the diminutive figure half a dozen times; once or twice he imagined his visitor had fallen asleep, but the blue eyes behind the thick spectacles, narrow as they were, belied this idea. It was precisely twenty-one minutes of ten o’clock when The Thinking Machine arose.
“Now, please,” he requested.
Without a word of protest the warden relighted the dark lantern, opened the doors leading into the corridor of the prison, and they went on to Cell 9. They paused at the door. There was utter silence in the huge prison, broken only by the regular, rhythmic breathing of Convict 97. At a motion from The Thinking Machine the warden softly unlocked the cell door, and they entered.
“Silence, please,” whispered the scientist.
He took the lantern from the warden’s unresisting hand, and going softly to the cot turned the light full into the face of the sleeping man. For a second or so he gazed steadily at the features upturned thus to him, then the brilliant light seemed to disturb the sleeper, for his eyelids twitched, and finally opened with a start.
“Do you know me, Gilfoil?” demanded The Thinking Machine suddenly, and he leaned forward so that the cutting rays of light should illumine has own features.
“Yes,” the prisoner replied shortly.
“What’s my name?” insisted the scientist.
“Van Dusen,” was the prompt reply. “I know you, all right.” Convict 97 raised himself on an elbow and met the eyes of the other two men without a quiver.
“What size shoe do you wear?” demanded the scientist.
“None of your business!” growled the convict.
The Thinking Machine turned the lantern to the floor and found the shoes the prisoner had laid aside on retiring. He picked them up and examined them carefully, after which he replaced them, nodded to the warden, and they went out. The prisoner lay for a long time, resting on his elbow, seeking to pierce the gloom of the cell and corridor beyond with wide awake eyes, then, sighing, lay down again.
“Let me see Gilfoil’s pedigree, and I shall not annoy you further,” The Thinking Machine requested, once they were in the warden’s office again. The record book was forthcoming. The scientist copied, accurately and at length, everything written therein concerning Philip Gilfoil. “And last,” he requested, “the name, please, of the physician who called to see Convict 97?”
“Dr. Heindell,” replied the Warden,—“Dr. Delmore L. Heindell.”
The Thinking Machine replaced his notebook in his pocket, planted his hat more firmly on the great shock of yellow hair, and slowly began to draw on his gloves.
“What is all this thing about Gilfoil, anyhow?” demanded the warden desperately. “Be good enough to inform me what the deuce you and Hatch have been driving at?”
“You are, I believe, an able, careful, conscientious man,” said The Thinking Machine, “and I don’t know that under the circumstances you can be blamed for what has happened; but the man you have in Cell 9 is not Philip Gilfoil. I don’t know who your Convict 97 is; but Philip Gilfoil hasn’t been in Chisholm prison for weeks. Good night.”
And the crabbed little scientist went on his way.
For the third time Hutchinson Hatch rapped upon the little door. The echo reverberated through the house; but there came no answering sound. The modest cottage in a quiet street of a fashionable suburb seemed wholly deserted, yet as he stepped back to the edge of the veranda he could see a faint light trickling through closely drawn shutters on the second floor.
Surely there must be some one there, the reporter reasoned, or that light would not be burning. And if some one was there, why wouldn’t
