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."