Chapter 2

It stopped at the
sound of his steps, then craftily the jailer, who was beyond the
prisoner's range of vision, resumed his tramping, the sound being
apparently that of a man going away from Cell 13. As a matter of fact
he was in the same spot.

After a moment there came again the steady scrape, scrape, and the
jailer crept cautiously on tiptoes to the door and peered between the
bars. The Thinking Machine was standing on the iron bed working at the
bars of the little window. He was using a file, judging from the
backward and forward swing of his arms.

Cautiously the jailer crept back to the office, summoned the warden in
person, and they returned to Cell 13 on tiptoes. The steady scrape was
still audible. The warden listened to satisfy himself and then
suddenly appeared at the door.

"Well?" he demanded, and there was a smile on his face.

The Thinking Machine glanced back from his perch on the bed and leaped
suddenly to the floor, making frantic efforts to hide something. The
warden went in, with hand extended.

"Give it up," he said.

"No," said the prisoner, sharply.

"Come, give it up," urged the warden. "I don't want to have to search
you again."

"No," repeated the prisoner.

"What was it, a file?" asked the warden.

The Thinking Machine was silent and stood squinting at the warden with
something very nearly approaching disappointment on his face--nearly,
but not quite. The warden was almost sympathetic.

"Plan number three fails, eh?" he asked, good-naturedly. "Too bad,
isn't it?"

The prisoner didn't say.

"Search him," instructed the warden.

The jailer searched the prisoner carefully. At last, artfully
concealed in the waist band of the trousers, he found a piece of steel
about two inches long, with one side curved like a half moon.

"Ah," said the warden, as he received it from the jailer. "From your
shoe heel," and he smiled pleasantly.

The jailer continued his search and on the other side of the trousers
waist band found another piece of steel identical with the first. The
edges showed where they had been worn against the bars of the window.

"You couldn't saw a way through those bars with these," said the
warden.

"I could have," said The Thinking Machine firmly.

"In six months, perhaps," said the warden, good-naturedly.

The warden shook his head slowly as he gazed into the slightly flushed
face of his prisoner.

"Ready to give it up?" he asked.

"I haven't started yet," was the prompt reply.

Then came another exhaustive search of the cell. Carefully the two men
went over it, finally turning out the bed and searching that. Nothing.
The warden in person climbed upon the bed and examined the bars of the
window where the prisoner had been sawing. When he looked he was
amused.

"Just made it a little bright by hard rubbing," he said to the
prisoner, who stood looking on with a somewhat crestfallen air. The
warden grasped the iron bars in his strong hands and tried to shake
them. They were immovable, set firmly in the solid granite. He
examined each in turn and found them all satisfactory. Finally he
climbed down from the bed.

"Give it up, professor," he advised.

The Thinking Machine shook his head and the warden and jailer passed
on again. As they disappeared down the corridor The Thinking Machine
sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

"He's crazy to try to get out of that cell," commented the jailer.

"Of course he can't get out," said the warden. "But he's clever. I
would like to know what he wrote that cipher with."

* * * * * *

It was four o'clock next morning when an awful, heart-racking shriek
of terror resounded through the great prison. It came from a cell,
somewhere about the center, and its tone told a tale of horror, agony,
terrible fear. The warden heard and with three of his men rushed into
the long corridor leading to Cell 13.

IV.

As they ran there came again that awful cry. It died away in a sort of
wail. The white faces of prisoners appeared at cell doors upstairs and
down, staring out wonderingly, frightened.

"It's that fool in Cell 13," grumbled the warden.

He stopped and stared in as one of the jailers flashed a lantern.
"That fool in Cell 13" lay comfortably on his cot, flat on his back
with his mouth open, snoring. Even as they looked there came again the
piercing cry, from somewhere above. The warden's face blanched a
little as he started up the stairs. There on the top floor he found a
man in Cell 43, directly above Cell 13, but two floors higher,
cowering in a corner of his cell.

"What's the matter?" demanded the warden.

"Thank God you've come," exclaimed the prisoner, and he cast himself
against the bars of his cell.

"What is it?" demanded the warden again.

He threw open the door and went in. The prisoner dropped on his knees
and clasped the warden about the body. His face was white with terror,
his eyes were widely distended, and he was shuddering. His hands, icy
cold, clutched at the warden's.

"Take me out of this cell, please take me out," he pleaded.

"What's the matter with you, anyhow?" insisted the warden,
impatiently.

"I heard something--something," said the prisoner, and his eyes roved
nervously around the cell.

"What did you hear?"

"I--I can't tell you," stammered the prisoner. Then, in a sudden burst
of terror: "Take me out of this cell--put me anywhere--but take me out
of here."

The warden and the three jailers exchanged glances.

"Who is this fellow? What's he accused of?" asked the warden.

"Joseph Ballard," said one of the jailers. "He's accused of throwing
acid in a woman's face. She died from it."

"But they can't prove it," gasped the prisoner. "They can't prove it.
Please put me in some other cell."

He was still clinging to the warden, and that official threw his arms
off roughly. Then for a time he stood looking at the cowering wretch,
who seemed possessed of all the wild, unreasoning terror of a child.

"Look here, Ballard," said the warden, finally, "if you heard
anything, I want to know what it was. Now tell me."

"I can't, I can't," was the reply. He was sobbing. "Where did it come
from?"

"I don't know. Everywhere--nowhere. I just heard it."

"What was it--a voice?"

"Please don't make me answer," pleaded the prisoner.

"You must answer," said the warden, sharply.

"It was a voice--but--but it wasn't human," was the sobbing reply.

"Voice, but not human?" repeated the warden, puzzled.

"It sounded muffled and--and far away--and ghostly," explained the
man.

"Did it come from inside or outside the prison?"

"It didn't seem to come from anywhere--it was just here, here,
everywhere. I heard it. I heard it."

For an hour the warden tried to get the story, but Ballard had become
suddenly obstinate and would say nothing--only pleaded to be placed in
another cell, or to have one of the jailers remain near him until
daylight. These requests were gruffly refused.

"And see here," said the warden, in conclusion, "if there's any more
of this screaming I'll put you in the padded cell."

Then the warden went his way, a sadly puzzled man. Ballard sat at his
cell door until daylight, his face, drawn and white with terror,
pressed against the bars, and looked out into the prison with wide.
staring eyes.

That day, the fourth since the incarceration of The Thinking Machine,
was enlivened considerably by the volunteer prisoner, who spent most
of his time at the little window of his cell. He began proceedings by
throwing another piece of linen down to the guard, who picked it up
dutifully and took it to the warden. On it was written:

"Only three days more."

The warden was in no way surprised at what he read; he understood that
The Thinking Machine meant only three days more of his imprisonment,
and he regarded the note as a boast. But how was the thing written?
Where had The Thinking Machine found this new piece of linen? Where?
How? He carefully examined the linen. It was white, of fine texture,
shirting material. He took the shirt which he had taken and carefully
fitted the two original pieces of the linen to the torn places. This
third piece was entirely superfluous; it didn't fit anywhere, and yet
it was unmistakably the same goods.

"And where--where does he get anything to write with?" demanded the
warden of the world at large.

Still later on the fourth day The Thinking Machine, through the window
of his cell, spoke to the armed guard outside.

"What day of the month is it?" he asked.

"The fifteenth," was the answer.

The Thinking Machine made a mental Astronomical calculation and
satisfied himself that the moon would not rise until after nine
o'clock that night. Then he asked another question:

"Who attends to those arc lights?"

"Man from the company."

"You have no electricians in the building?"

"I should think you could save money if you had your own man."

"None of my business," replied the guard.

The guard noticed The Thinking Machine at the cell window frequently
during that day, but always the face seemed listless and there was a
certain wistfulness in the squint eyes behind the glasses. After a
while he accepted the presence of the leonine head as a matter of
course. He had seen other prisoners do the same thing; it was the
longing for the outside world.

That afternoon, just before the day guard was relieved, the head
appeared at the window again, and The Thinking Machine's hand held
something out between the bars. It fluttered to the ground and the
guard picked it up. It was a five-dollar bill.

"That's for you," called the prisoner.

As usual, the guard took it to the warden. That gentleman looked at it
suspiciously; he looked at everything that came from Cell 13 with
suspicion.

"He said it was for me," explained the guard.

"It's a sort of a tip, I suppose," said the warden. "I see no
particular reason why you shouldn't accept----"

Suddenly he stopped. He had remembered that The Thinking Machine had
gone into Cell 13 with one five-dollar bill and two ten-dollar bills;
twenty-five dollars in all. Now a five-dollar bill had been tied
around the first pieces of linen that came from the cell. The warden
still had it, and to convince himself he took it out and looked at it.
It was five dollars; yet here was another five dollars, and The
Thinking Machine had only had ten-dollar bills.

"Perhaps somebody changed one of the bills for him," he thought at
last, with a sigh of relief.

But then and there he made up his mind. He would search Cell 13 as a
cell was never before searched in this world. When a man could write
at will, and change money, and do other wholly inexplicable things,
there was something radically wrong with his prison. He planned to
enter the cell at night--three o'clock would be an excellent time. The
Thinking Machine must do all the weird things he did sometime. Night
seemed the most reasonable.

Thus it happened that the warden stealthily descended upon Cell 13
that night at three o'clock. He paused at the door and listened. There
was no sound save the steady, regular breathing of the prisoner.
The keys unfastened the double locks with scarcely a clank, and the
warden entered, locking the door behind him. Suddenly he flashed his
dark-lantern in the face of the recumbent figure.

If the warden had planned to startle The Thinking Machine he was
mistaken, for that individual merely opened his eyes quietly, reached
for his glasses and inquired, in a most matter-of-fact tone:

"Who is it?"

It would be useless to describe the search that the warden made. It
was minute. Not one inch of the cell or the bed was overlooked. He
found the round hole in the floor, and with a flash of inspiration
thrust his thick fingers into it. After a moment of fumbling there he
drew up something and looked at it in the light of his lantern.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed.

The thing he had taken out was a rat--a dead rat. His inspiration fled
as a mist before the sun. But he continued the search. The Thinking
Machine, without a word, arose and kicked the rat out of the cell into
the corridor.

The warden climbed on the bed and tried the steel bars in the tiny
window. They were perfectly rigid; every bar of the door was the same.

Then the warden searched the prisoner's clothing, beginning at the
shoes. Nothing hidden in them! Then the trousers waist band. Still
nothing! Then the pockets of the trousers. From one side he drew out
some paper money and examined it.

"Five one-dollar bills," he gasped.

"That's right," said the prisoner.

"But the--you had two tens and a five--what the--how do you do it?"

"That's my business," said The Thinking Machine.

"Did any of my men change this money for you--on your word of honor?"

The Thinking Machine paused just a fraction of a second.

"No," he said.

"Well, do you make it?" asked the warden. He was prepared to believe
anything.

"That's my business," again said the prisoner.

The warden glared at the eminent scientist fiercely. He felt--he
knew--that this man was making a fool of him, yet he didn't know how.
If he were a real prisoner he would get the truth--but, then, perhaps,
those inexplicable things which had happened would not have been
brought before him so sharply. Neither of the men spoke for a long
time, then suddenly the warden turned fiercely and left the cell,
slamming the door behind him. He didn't dare to speak, then.

He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to four. He had hardly
settled himself in bed when again came that heart-breaking shriek
through the prison. With a few muttered words, which, while not
elegant, were highly expressive, he relighted his lantern and rushed
through the prison again to the cell on the upper floor.

Again Ballard was crushing himself against the steel door, shrieking,
shrieking at the top of his voice. He stopped only when the warden
flashed his lamp in the cell.

"Take me out, take me out," he screamed. "I did it, I did it, I killed
her. Take it away."

"Take what away?" asked the warden.

"I threw the acid in her face--I did it--I confess. Take me out of
here."

Ballard's condition was pitiable; it was only an act of mercy to let
him out into the corridor. There he crouched in a corner, like an
animal at bay, and clasped his hands to his ears. It took half an hour
to calm him sufficiently for him to speak. Then he told incoherently
what had happened. On the night before at four o'clock he had heard a
voice--a sepulchral voice, muffled and wailing in tone.

"What did it say?" asked the warden, curiously.

"Acid--acid--acid!" gasped the prisoner. "It accused me. Acid! I threw
the acid, and the woman died. Oh!" It was a long, shuddering wail of
terror.

"Acid?" echoed the warden, puzzled. The case was beyond him.

"Acid. That's all I heard--that one word, repeated several times.
There were other things, too, but I didn't hear them."

"That was last night, eh?" asked the warden. "What happened
to-night--what frightened you just now?"

"It was the same thing," gasped the prisoner. "Acid--acid--acid!" He
covered his face with his hands and sat shivering. "It was acid I used
on her, but I didn't mean to kill her. I just heard the words. It was
something accusing me--accusing me." He mumbled, and was silent.

"Did you hear anything else?"

"Yes--but I couldn't understand--only a little bit--just a word or
two."

"Well, what was it?"

"I heard 'acid' three times, then I heard a long, moaning sound,
then--then--I heard 'No. 8 hat.' I heard that twice."

"No. 8 hat," repeated the warden. "What the devil--No. 8 hat? Accusing
voices of conscience have never talked about No. 8 hats, so far as I
ever heard."

"He's insane," said one of the jailers, with an air of finality.

"I believe you," said the warden. "He must be. He probably heard
something and got frightened. He's trembling now. No. 8 hat! What
the----"

V.

When the fifth day of The Thinking Machine's imprisonment rolled
around the warden was wearing a hunted look. He was anxious for the
end of the thing. He could not help but feel that his distinguished
prisoner had been amusing himself. And if this were so, The Thinking
Machine had lost none of his sense of humor. For on this fifth day he
flung down another linen note to the outside guard, bearing the words:
"Only two days more." Also he flung down half a dollar.

Now the warden knew--he _knew_--that the man in Cell 13 didn't have
any half dollars--he _couldn't_ have any half dollars, no more than he
could have pen and ink and linen, and yet he did have them. It was a
condition, not a theory; that is one reason why the warden was wearing
a hunted look.

That ghastly, uncanny thing, too, about "Acid" and "No. 8 hat" clung
to him tenaciously. They didn't mean anything, of course, merely the
ravings of an insane murderer who had been driven by fear to confess
his crime, still there were so many things that "didn't mean anything"
happening in the prison now since The Thinking Machine was there.

On the sixth day the warden received a postal stating that Dr.
Ransome and Mr. Fielding would be at Chisholm Prison on the following
evening, Thursday, and in the event Professor Van Dusen had not yet
escaped--and they presumed he had not because they had not heard from
him--they would meet him there.

"In the event he had not yet escaped!" The warden smiled grimly.
Escaped!

The Thinking Machine enlivened this day for the warden with three
notes. They were on the usual linen and bore generally on the
appointment at half-past eight o'clock Thursday night, which
appointment the scientist had made at the time of his imprisonment.

On the afternoon of the seventh day the warden passed Cell 13 and
glanced in. The Thinking Machine was lying on the iron bed, apparently
sleeping lightly. The cell appeared precisely as it always did from a
casual glance. The warden would swear that no man was going to leave
it between that hour--it was then four o'clock--and half-past eight
o'clock that evening.

On his way back past the cell the warden heard the steady breathing
again, and coming close to the door looked in. He wouldn't have done
so if The Thinking Machine had been looking, but now--well, it was
different.

A ray of light came through the high window and fell on the face of
the sleeping man. It occurred to the warden for the first time that
his prisoner appeared haggard and weary. Just then The Thinking
Machine stirred slightly and the warden hurried on up the corridor
guiltily. That evening after six o'clock he saw the jailer.

"Everything all right in Cell 13?" he asked. "Yes, sir," replied the
jailer. "He didn't eat much, though."

It was with a feeling of having done his duty that the warden received
Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding shortly after seven o'clock. He intended
to show them the linen notes and lay before them the full story of his
woes, which was a long one. But before this came to pass the guard
from the river side of the prison yard entered the office.

"The arc light in my side of the yard won't light," he informed the
warden.

"Confound it, that man's a hoodoo," thundered the official.
"Everything has happened since he's been here."

The guard went back to his post in the darkness, and the warden
'phoned to the electric light company.

"This is Chisholm Prison," he said through the 'phone. "Send three or
four men down here quick, to fix an arc light."

The reply was evidently satisfactory, for the warden hung up the
receiver and passed out into the yard. While Dr. Ransome and Mr.
Fielding sat waiting the guard at the outer gate came in with a
special delivery letter. Dr. Ransome happened to notice the address,
and, when the guard went out, looked at the letter more closely.

"By George!" he exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.

Silently the doctor offered the letter. Mr. Fielding examined it
closely.

"Coincidence," he said. "It must be."

It was nearly eight o'clock when the warden returned to his office.
The electricians had arrived in a wagon, and were now at work. The
warden pressed the buzz-button communicating with the man at the outer
gate in the wall.

"How many electricians came in?" he asked, over the short 'phone.
"Four? Three workmen in jumpers and overalls and the manager? Frock
coat and silk hat? All right. Be certain that only four go out. That's
all."

He turned to Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding. "We have to be careful
here--particularly," and there was broad sarcasm in his tone, "since
we have scientists locked up."

The warden picked up the special delivery letter carelessly, and then
began to open it.

"When I read this I want to tell you gentlemen something about
how---- Great Cæsar!" he ended, suddenly, as he glanced at the letter.
He sat with mouth open, motionless, from astonishment.

"What is it?" asked Mr. Fielding.

"A special delivery letter from Cell 13," gasped the warden. "An
invitation to supper."

"What?" and the two others arose, unanimously. The warden sat dazed,
staring at the letter for a moment, then called sharply to a guard
outside in the corridor.

"Run down to Cell 13 and see if that man's in there."

The guard went as directed, while Dr. Ransome and Mr. Fielding
examined the letter.

"It's Van Dusen's handwriting; there's no question of that," said Dr.
Ransome. "I've seen too much of it."

Just then the buzz of the telephone from the outer gate sounded, and
the warden, in a semi-trance, picked up the receiver.

"Hello! Two reporters, eh? Let 'em come in." He turned suddenly to the
doctor and Mr. Fielding. "Why, the man _can't_ be out. He must be in
his cell."

Just at that moment the guard returned.

"He's still in his cell, sir," he reported. "I saw him. He's lying
down."

"There, I told you so," said the warden, and he breathed freely again.
"But how did he mail that letter?"

There was a rap on the steel door which led from the jail yard into
the warden's office.

"It's the reporters," said the warden. "Let them in," he instructed
the guard; then to the two other gentlemen: "Don't say anything about
this before them, because I'd never hear the last of it."

The door opened, and the two men from the front gate entered.

"Good-evening, gentlemen," said one. That was Hutchinson Hatch; the
warden knew him well.

"Well?" demanded the other, irritably. "I'm here."

That was The Thinking Machine.

He squinted belligerently at the warden, who sat with mouth agape. For
the moment that official had nothing to say. Dr. Ransome and Mr.
Fielding were amazed, but they didn't know what the warden knew. They
were only amazed; he was paralyzed. Hutchinson Hatch, the reporter,
took in the scene with greedy eyes.

"How--how--how did you do it?" gasped the warden, finally.

"Come back to the cell," said The Thinking Machine, in the irritated
voice which his scientific associates knew so well.

The warden, still in a condition bordering on trance, led the way.

"Flash your light in there," directed The Thinking Machine.

The warden did so. There was nothing unusual in the appearance of the
cell, and there--there on the bed lay the figure of The Thinking
Machine. Certainly! There was the yellow hair! Again the warden looked
at the man beside him and wondered at the strangeness of his own
dreams.

With trembling hands he unlocked the cell door and The Thinking
Machine passed inside.

"See here," he said.

He kicked at the steel bars in the bottom of the cell door and three
of them were pushed out of place. A fourth broke off and rolled away
in the corridor.

"And here, too," directed the erstwhile prisoner as he stood on the
bed to reach the small window. He swept his hand across the opening
and every bar came out.

"What's this in the bed?" demanded the warden, who was slowly
recovering.

"A wig," was the reply. "Turn down the cover."

The warden did so. Beneath it lay a large coil of strong rope, thirty
feet or more, a dagger, three files, ten feet of electric wire, a
thin, powerful pair of steel pliers, a small tack hammer with its
handle, and--and a Derringer pistol.

"How did you do it?" demanded the warden.

"You gentlemen have an engagement to supper with me at half-past nine
o'clock," said The Thinking Machine. "Come on, or we shall be late."

"But how did you do it?" insisted the warden.

"Don't ever think you can hold any man who can use his brain," said
The Thinking Machine. "Come on; we shall be late."

VI.

It was an impatient supper party in the rooms of Professor Van Dusen
and a somewhat silent one. The guests were Dr. Ransome, Albert
Fielding, the warden, and Hutchinson Hatch, reporter. The meal was
served to the minute, in accordance with Professor Van Dusen's
instructions of one week before; Dr. Ransome found the artichokes
delicious. At last the supper was finished and The Thinking Machine
turned full on Dr. Ransome and squinted at him fiercely.

"Do you believe it now?" he demanded.

"I do," replied Dr. Ransome.

"Do you admit that it was a fair test?"

"I do."

With the others, particularly the warden, he was waiting anxiously for
the explanation.

"Suppose you tell us how----" began Mr. Fielding.

"Yes, tell us how," said the warden.

The Thinking Machine readjusted his glasses, took a couple of
preparatory squints at his audience, and began the story. He told it
from the beginning logically; and no man ever talked to more
interested listeners.

"My agreement was," he began, "to go into a cell, carrying nothing
except what was necessary to wear, and to leave that cell within a
week. I had never seen Chisholm Prison. When I went into the cell I
asked for tooth powder, two ten and one five-dollar bills, and also to
have my shoes blacked. Even if these requests had been refused it
would not have mattered seriously. But you agreed to them.

"I knew there would be nothing in the cell which you thought I might
use to advantage. So when the warden locked the door on me I was
apparently helpless, unless I could turn three seemingly innocent
things to use. They were things which would have been permitted any
prisoner under sentence of death, were they not, warden?"

"Tooth powder and polished shoes, yes, but not money," replied the
warden.

"Anything is dangerous in the hands of a man who knows how to use it,"
went on The Thinking Machine. "I did nothing that first night but
sleep and chase rats." He glared at the warden. "When the matter was
broached I knew I could do nothing that night, so suggested next day.
You gentlemen thought I wanted time to arrange an escape with outside
assistance, but this was not true. I knew I could communicate with
whom I pleased, when I pleased."

The warden stared at him a moment, then went on smoking solemnly.

"I was aroused next morning at six o'clock by the jailer with my
breakfast," continued the scientist. "He told me dinner was at twelve
and supper at six. Between these times, I gathered, I would be pretty
much to myself. So immediately after breakfast I examined my outside
surroundings from my cell window. One look told me it would be useless
to try to scale the wall, even should I decide to leave my cell by the
window, for my purpose was to leave not only the cell, but the prison.
Of course, I could have gone over the wall, but it would have taken me
longer to lay my plans that way. Therefore, for the moment, I
dismissed all idea of that.

"From this first observation I knew the river was on that side of
the prison, and that there was also a playground there. Subsequently
these surmises were verified by a keeper. I knew then one important
thing--that anyone might approach the prison wall from that side if
necessary without attracting any particular attention. That was well
to remember. I remembered it.

"But the outside thing which most attracted my attention was the feed
wire to the arc light which ran within a few feet--probably three or
four--of my cell window. I knew that would be valuable in the event I
found it necessary to cut off that arc light."

"Oh, you shut it off to-night, then?" asked the warden.

"Having learned all I could from that window," resumed The Thinking
Machine, without heeding the interruption, "I considered the idea of
escaping through the prison proper. I recalled just how I had come
into the cell, which I knew would be the only way. Seven doors lay
between me and the outside. So, also for the time being, I gave up the
idea of escaping that way. And I couldn't go through the solid granite
walls of the cell."

The Thinking Machine paused for a moment and Dr. Ransome lighted a new
cigar. For several minutes there was silence, then the scientific
jail-breaker went on:

"While I was thinking about these things a rat ran across my foot.