"I bound my handkerchief on it," replied the Girl. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
"Where was the wound?"
"In the right shoulder," she replied.
"Back or front?" insisted the scientist.
"Back," she replied. "Very near the arm, an inch or so below the level of the shoulder."
Except for The Thinking Machine himself Hatch was the only person in the room to whom this statement meant anything, and he restrained a shout with difficulty.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," the scientist went on calmly, "do you happen to know Dr. Clarence Walpole?"
"I know of him, yes," replied the detective. "He is a man of considerable reputation."
"Would you believe him under oath?"
"Why, certainly, of course."
The Supreme Intelligence tugged at his bristly moustache.
"If Doctor Walpole should dress a wound and should later, under oath, point out its exact location, you would believe him?"
"Why, I'd have to, of course."
"Very well," commented The Thinking Machine tersely. "Now I will state an incontrovertible scientific fact for your further enlightenment. You may verify it any way you choose. This is, briefly, that the blood corpuscles in man average one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch in diameter. Remember that, please: one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch. The system of measurement has reached a state of perfection almost incomprehensible to the man who does not understand."
He paused for so long that Detective Mallory began to wriggle again. The others were leaning forward, listening with widely varied expressions on their faces.
"Now, Mr. Mallory," continued The Thinking Machine at last, "one of your men shot twice at the Burglar in the automobile, as I understand it?"
"Yes-two shots."
"Mr. Cunningham?"
"Yes, Detective Cunningham."
"Is he here now?"
The detective pressed a button on his desk and a uniformed man appeared. Instructions were given, and a moment later Detective Cunningham stood before them wonderingly.
"I suppose you can prove beyond any shadow of a doubt," resumed the scientist, still addressing Mr. Mallory, "that two shots-and only two-were fired?"
"I can prove it by twenty witnesses," was the reply.
"Good, very good," exclaimed the scientist, and he turned to Cunningham. "You know that only two shots were fired?"
"I know it, yes," replied Cunningham. "I fired 'em."
"May I see your revolver?"
Cunningham produced the weapon and handed it over. The Thinking Machine merely glanced at it.
"This is the revolver you used?"
"Yes."
"Very well, then," remarked the scientist quietly, "on that statement alone Mr. Herbert is proven innocent of the charge against him."
There was an astonished gasp all around. Hatch was beginning to see what The Thinking Machine meant, and curiously watched the bewitchingly sorrowful face of Dollie Meredith. He saw all sorts of strange things there.
"Proven innocent?" snorted Detective Mallory. "Why, you've convicted him out of hand so far as I can see."
"Corpuscles in human blood average, as I said, one-thirty-three hundredths of an inch in diameter," resumed the scientist. "They vary slightly each way, of course. Now, the corpuscles of the Burglar in the automobile measured just one-thirty-one-forty-seven hundredths of an inch. Mr. Herbert's corpuscles, tested the same way, with the same instruments, measure precisely one-thirty-five-sixty hundredths." He stopped as if that were all.
"By George!" exclaimed Mr. Randolph. "By George!"
"That's all tommy-rot," Detective Mallory burst out. "That's nothing to a jury or to any other man with common sense."
"That difference in measurement proves beyond question that Mr. Herbert was not wounded while in the automobile," went on The Thinking Machine as if there had been no interruption. "Now, Mr. Cunningham, may I ask if the Burglar's back was toward you when you fired?"
"Yes, I suppose so. He was going away from me."
"Well, that statement agrees with the statement of Miss Meredith to show that the Burglar was wounded in the back. Doctor Walpole dressed Mr. Herbert's wound between two and three o'clock Friday morning following the masked ball. Mr. Herbert had been shot, but the wound was in the front of his right shoulder."
Delighted amazement radiated from Dollie Meredith's face; she clapped her hands involuntarily as she would have applauded a stage incident. Detective Mallory started to say something, then thought better of it and glared at Cunningham instead.
"Now, Mr. Cunningham says that he shot the Burglar with this revolver." The Thinking Machine waved the weapon under Detective Mallory's nose. "This is the usual police weapon. Its calibre is thirty-eight. Mr. Herbert was shot with a thirty-two calibre. Here is the bullet." And he tossed it on the desk.
Chapter VI.
Strange emotions all tangled up with turbulent, night-marish impressions scrambled through Dollie Meredith's pretty head in garish disorder. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Finally she compromised by blushing radiantly at the memory of certain lingering kisses she had bestowed upon-upon-Dick Herbert? No, it wasn't Dick Herbert. Oh, dear!
Detective Mallory pounced upon the bullet as a hound upon a hare, and turned and twisted it in his hands. Cunningham leaned over his shoulder, then drew a cartridge from the revolver and compared it, as to size, with the bullet. Hatch and Mr. Randolph, looking on, saw him shake his head. The ball was too small for the revolver.
The Supreme Intelligence turned suddenly, fiercely, upon Dollie and thrust an accusing finger into her startled face.
"Mr. Herbert confessed to you that he was with you in the automobile, didn't he?"
"Y-yes," she faltered.
"You know he was with you?"
"I thought I knew it."
"You wouldn't have gone with any other man?"