"Lord, and we really thought that was a press agent's yarn," remarked Hatch sadly.
"To-night when we went to the room it was my intention to allow the snake to creep out of that large hole near the radiator-I suppose you noticed there was one there?-then to pass between the snake and the hole and call for Mr. Hatch and these other gentlemen who were waiting outside the door. If the snake attacked me I had a knife and Mr. Hatch had a revolver.
"But I'm afraid I didn't give the snake credit for quickness and such enormous strength," he went on ruefully. "I heard the snake come out of the hole, and then instantly almost I felt its folds crushing me. Then these gentlemen rushed in. I can readily understand how it choked Boyd, he having no way to defend himself, and then crawled away when those people knocked on the door. It nearly crushed the life out of me."
That seemed to be all, and The Thinking Machine stopped.
"But Frank Cunningham?" asked the police captain. "Why did he run away, and where is he now?"
"Cunningham?" repeated the scientist, puzzled.
"Yes," said the captain. "Where is he?"
"Why here he is," and The Thinking Machine indicated the accused man. "Mr. Cunningham permit me to introduce you to Captain-er-er. I don't know his name."
The captain was not surprised; he was nonplussed. It had never occurred to him to ask the name of the fourth member of the party; he knew the two newspaper men.
"How-where-when did you--" he began.
"Not knowing whether or not he had killed his friend Boyd," explained the scientist, "he was hiding in the suite of Miss Caroline Pierce, his fiance. His lack of knowledge was due entirely to a queer mental condition. He was badly hurt at one time and wears a silver plate in his head. That accounts for many things."
"How did you get him?" asked the captain, amazed.
"I walked into Miss Pierce's suite after I had put a man at the back and front to stop any one who ran out, and told Miss Pierce's friend, Miss Jerrod, that I believed-in fact knew-that Cunningham was innocent, and that I had come merely to warn him," said The Thinking Machine.
"I told her then that three policemen were at the front door, and then Mr. Manning here rang the bell violently, as I had instructed him, and Cunningham dashed out of a rear room and started out the back way. Mr. Hatch got him there. It was perfectly simple-that part of it. Of course, there was a chance that he wasn't there at all-but he was."
The Thinking Machine arose.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Why did you examine Cunningham's head before he told us his story?" asked Hatch.
"I have some idea of the cranial formation of criminals and I merely wanted to satisfy myself," said the scientist. "It was then that I discovered the silver plate in his head."
"And this?" asked Hatch. He took from his pocket the sealed envelope which The Thinking Machine had given him in the tenement room immediately after he had inspected the room. On this envelope was written "November 9-10", this being the date the circus was in South Boston.
"Oh, that?" said Professor Van Dusen a little impatiently, "that is merely a solution to the mystery."
Hatch opened the envelope and looked at it. There were only a few words:
"Snake. Came through hole near radiator. Lived in walls. Escaped from circus. Cunningham innocent."
"That all?" again asked The Thinking Machine.
There was no answer, and the scientist and the two newspaper men left the police station, followed by Cunningham.
PROBLEM OF THE SUPERFLUOUS FINGER.
She drew off her left glove, a delicate, crinkled suede affair, and offered her bare hand to the surgeon. An artist would have called it beautiful, perfect, even; the surgeon, professionally enough, set it down as an excellent structural specimen. From the polished pink nails of the tapering fingers to the firm, well moulded wrist, it was distinctly the hand of a woman of ease-one that had never known labour, a pampered hand Dr. Prescott told himself.
"The fore-finger," she explained calmly. "I should like to have it amputated at the first joint, please."
"Amputated?" gasped Dr. Prescott. He stared into the pretty face of his caller. It was flushed softly, and the red lips were parted in a slight smile. It seemed quite an ordinary affair to her. The surgeon bent over the hand with quick interest. "Amputated!" he repeated.
"I came to you," she went on with a nod, "because I have been informed that you are one of the most skilful men of your profession, and the cost of the operation is quite immaterial."
Dr. Prescott pressed the pink nail of the fore-finger then permitted the blood to rush back into it. Several times he did this, then he turned the hand over and scrutinized it closely inside from the delicately lined palm to the tips of the fingers. When he looked up at last there was an expression of frank bewilderment on his face.
"What's the matter with it?" he asked.
"Nothing," the woman replied pleasantly. "I merely want it off from the first joint."
The surgeon leaned back in his chair with a frown of perplexity on his brow, and his visitor was subjected to a sharp, professional stare. She bore it unflinchingly and even smiled a little at his obvious perturbation.
"Why do you want it off?" he demanded.
The woman shrugged her shoulders a little impatiently.
"I can't tell you that," she replied. "It really is not necessary that you should know. You are a surgeon, I want an operation performed. That is all."
There was a long pause; the mutual stare didn't waver.
"You must understand, Miss-Miss-er--" began Dr. Prescott at last. "By the way, you have not introduced yourself?" She was silent. "May I ask your name?"
"My name is of no consequence," she replied calmly. "I might, of course, give you a name, but it would not be mine, therefore any name would be superfluous."
Again the surgeon stared.
"When do you want the operation performed?" he inquired.
"Now," she replied. "I am ready."
"You must understand," he said severely, "that surgery is a profession for the relief of human suffering, not for mutilation-wilful mutilation I might say."
"I understand that perfectly," she said. "But where a person submits of her own desire to-to mutilation as you call it I can see no valid objection on your part."
"It would be criminal to remove a finger where there is no necessity for it," continued the surgeon bluntly. "No good end could be served."
A trace of disappointment showed in the young woman's face, and again she shrugged her shoulders.
"The question after all," she said finally, "is not one of ethics but is simply whether or not you will perform the operation. Would you do it for, say, a thousand dollars?"
"Not for five thousand dollars," blurted the surgeon,
"Well, for ten thousand then?" she asked, quiet casually.