The Problem of Cell 13 | Page 8

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.
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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