"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?"
"No."
"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.