The Problem of Cell 13 | Page 9

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