"Precisely five weeks and four days ago," replied The Thinking Machine. "Your records show that. On your own books, in your own handwriting, is a complete solution of the problem, although you didn't know it," he added magnanimously. "Everything is there. Let me see the book a moment."
The squint eyes ran rapidly down a page, and stopped at a written entry opposite the pedigree record.
'Sept. 3.-Miss P. Gilfoil, sister, permitted half-hour's conversation with 97 in afternoon. Brought permission from chairman of Prison Commission.'
"That's the record of the escape," continued The Thinking Machine. "Philip Gilfoil has no sister, therefore the person who called was the Rev. Dr. Phineas Gilfoil, an only brother, and he wore woman's clothing. He went to that cell willingly and for the specific purpose of changing places with his brother,-the motive doesn't appear,-and was to remain in the cell for a time agreed upon. The necessary changes of clothing were made, instructions which were to enable the minister to impersonate his brother were given,-and they were elaborate,-then Philip Gilfoil, Convict 97, walked out as a woman. I dare say he invited a close scrutiny; it was perfectly safe because of his remarkable resemblance to the man he had left behind."
Amazement in the warden's eyes was giving way to anger at the trick of which he had been the victim. He turned to the guards who had stood by silently.
"Take this man back!" he directed, and indicated Philip Gilfoil. "Put him where he belongs!" Then he turned toward the white faced minister. "I shall deliver you over to the police."
Philip Gilfoil was led away; then the warden reached for the telephone receiver.
"Now, just a moment, please," requested The Thinking Machine, and he sat down. "You have your prisoner now, safely enough, and here you are about to turn over to the police a man whose every act of life has been a good one. Remember that for a moment, please."
"But why should he change places with my prisoner?" blazed the warden. "That makes him liable too. The statutes are specific on--"
"The Rev. Dr. Gilfoil has done one of the most amazing, not to say heroic, things that I ever heard of," interrupted the scientist. "Now, wait a minute. He, a man of position, of reputation, of unquestioned morals, a good man, deliberately incarcerates himself for the sake of a criminal brother who, in this man's eyes, must be free for a short time at any rate. The reason of this, the necessity, while urgent, still doesn't appear. Dr. Gilfoil trusted his brother, criminal though he was, to return to his cell in four weeks and finish his sentence. The exchange of prisoners then was to be made in the same manner. That the criminal brother did not return, as he agreed, but that Dr. Gilfoil was loyal to him even then and lived up to the lie, can only reflect credit upon Dr. Gilfoil for a self sacrifice which is almost beyond us prosaic people of this day."
"I did it because--" Dr. Gilfoil began hoarsely, his voice quivering with emotion. It was the first time he had spoken.
"It doesn't matter why you did it," interrupted The Thinking Machine. "You did it for love of a brother, and he betrayed you-betrayed you to the point of his taking possession of your house while maudlin from drink, to the point of striking your wife like the coward he is, and of making a temporary prisoner of Mr. Hatch here, who had gone to your home to investigate. It is due to Mr. Hatch's personal courage that your wife is freed from him,-she was practically a prisoner,-and that he is now in his cell again."
Dr. Gilfoil's face went pallid for an instant, and he staggered to his feet, with lips tightly pressed together, fighting back an emotion which nearly overwhelmed him. After a moment came a strange softening of his features, and he stood staring out the window into the prison yard with upraised eyes.
"That's all of it," said the scientist, after a moment. "I don't think, Mr. Warden, that justice would demand the imprisonment of this man. I believe it would be far better to let the matter remain just between ourselves. It will not happen again, and--"
"But it was a crime," interrupted the warden.
"Technically, yes," admitted The Thinking Machine; "but we can overlook even a crime, if it does no harm, and if it is inspired by the motive which prompted this one. Think of it for a moment in that light."
There was a long silence in the little office. The Thinking Machine sat with upturned eyes and fingers pressed tip to tip; Dr. Gilfoil's eyes roved from the drawn, inscrutable face of the scientist to the warden; Hatch's brow was furrowed with wrinkles of perplexity.
"How did you find out about this escape first?" asked the reporter curiously.
"I knew Philip Gilfoil had escaped, because I saw him," replied The Thinking Machine tersely. "He came to my place, evidently to kill me. I was in my laboratory. He came up behind me to strike me down. I glanced into a mirror above my work table, saw him, and tried to avoid the blow. It caught me in the back of the head, and I fell unconscious. Martha made some noise outside which must have frightened Gilfoil, for he fled. The front door locked behind him-it's a spring lock. But I had recognized the escaped prisoner perfectly,-I never forget faces,-and I knew he had the motive to kill me because I had been instrumental in sending him here.
"I told you merely that Gilfoil had escaped and sent you here to inquire. Afterward I came myself, because I knew Philip Gilfoil was not in that cell. I found out many additional facts, among them a sudden change for the better in the prisoner's behavior, which confirmed my knowledge that it was Philip Gilfoil who had attacked me. I sought to surprise Dr. Gilfoil here into a betrayal of identity by a visit to his cell at night. But his loyalty to his brother and his perfect self possession enabled him to play the role. He recognized me as he recognized you, Mr. Hatch, because we can imagine that Philip Gilfoil had been careful in his plans and had instructed him to look out for us.
"Everything else came from the record book. This gave me Philip Gilfoil's pedigree, mentioned Phineas Gilfoil, without stating his vocation, and gave a clue to his place of residence. You followed up that end, Mr. Hatch, while I called on Dr. Heindell who had treated the prisoner for a bad throat. He informed me that there was nothing at all the matter with the prisoner's throat, so a plain problem in addition brought me a definite knowledge of what had happened. In conclusion, I may say that Dr. Gilfoil planned only a four weeks' stay here. I know that because you told me he had gone on a four weeks' vacation."
The minister's eyes again settled on the face of the warden. That official had been turning the matter over in his mind, evidently at length, as he listened. Finally he spoke.
"You had better go back to the cell, Dr. Gilfoil," he said respectfully, "and change clothing with your brother. You couldn't wear that prison suit in the street safely."
_______________________.
PROBLEM OF THE BROKEN BRACELET.
The girl in the green mask leaned against the foot of the bed and idly fingered a revolver which lay in the palm of her daintily gloved hand. The dim glow of the night lamp enveloped her softly, and added a sinister glint to the bright steel of the weapon. Cowering in the bed was another figure-the figure of a woman. Sheets and blankets were drawn up tightly to her chin, and startled eyes peered anxiously, as if fascinated, at the revolver.
"Now please don't scream!" warned the masked girl. Her voice was quite casual, the tone in which one might have discussed an affair of far removed personal interest. "It would be perfectly useless, and besides dangerous."
"Who are you?" gasped the woman in the bed, staring horror stricken at the inscrutable mask of her visitor. "What do you want?"
A faint flicker of amusement lay in the shadowy eyes of the masked girl, and her red lips twitched slightly. "I don't think I can be mistaken," she said inquiringly. "This is Miss Isabel Leigh Harding?"
"Y-yes," was the chattering reply.
"Originally of Virginia?"
"Yes."
"Great-granddaughter of William Tremaine Harding, an officer in the Continental Army about 1775?"
The inflection of the questioning voice had risen almost imperceptibly; but the tone remained coldly, exquisitely courteous. At the last question the masked girl leaned forward a little expectantly.
"Yes," faltered Miss Harding faintly.
"Good, very good," commented the masked girl, and there was a note of repressed triumph in her voice. "I congratulate you, Miss Harding, upon your self possession. Under the same circumstances most women would have begun by screaming. I should have myself."
"But who are you?" demanded Miss Harding again. "How did you get in here? What do you want?"
She sat bolt upright in bed, with less of fear now than curiosity in her manner, and her luxuriant hair tumbled about her semibare shoulders in profuse dishevelment.
At the sudden movement the masked girl took a firmer grip on the revolver, and moved it forward a little threateningly. "Now please don't make any mistake!" she advised Miss Harding pleasantly. "You will notice that I have drawn the bell rope up beyond your reach and knotted it. The servants are on the floor above in the extreme rear, and I doubt if they would hear a scream. Your companion is away for the night, and besides there is this." She tapped her weapon significantly. "Furthermore, you may notice that the lamp is beyond your reach; so that you cannot extinguish it as long as you remain in bed."
Miss Harding saw all these things, and was convinced.
"Now as to your question," continued the masked girl quietly. "My identity is of absolutely no concern or importance to you. You would not even recognize my name if I gave it to you. How did I get here? By opening an unfastened window in the drawing room on the first floor and walking in. I shall leave it unlatched when I go; so perhaps you had better have some one fasten it, otherwise thieves may enter." She smiled a little at the astonishment in Miss Harding's face. "Now as to why I am here and what I want."
She sat down on the foot of the bed, drew her cloak more closely about her, and folded her hands in her lap. Miss Harding placed a pillow and lounged against it comfortably, watching her visitor in astonishment. Except for the mask and the revolver, it might have been a cozy chat in any woman's boudoir.
"I came here to borrow from you-borrow, understand," the masked girl went on, "the least valuable article in your jewel box."
"My jewel box!" gasped Miss Harding suddenly. She had just thought of it, and glanced around at the table where it lay open.
"Don't alarm yourself," the masked girl remarked reassuringly; "I have removed nothing from it."
The light of the lamp fell full upon the open casket whence radiated multicolored flashes of gems. Miss Harding craned her neck a little to see, and seeing sank back against her pillow with a sigh of relief.
"As I said, I came to borrow one thing," the masked girl continued evenly. "If I cannot borrow it, I shall take it."
Miss Harding sat for a moment in mute contemplation of her visitor. She was searching her mind for some tangible explanation of this nightmarish thing. After awhile she shook her head, meaning thereby that even conjecture was futile. "What particular article do you want?" she asked finally.
"Specifically by letter, from the prison in which he was executed by order of the British commander, your great-grandfather, William Tremaine Harding, left a gold bracelet, a plain band, to your grandfather," the masked girl explained; "Your grandfather, at that time a child, received the bracelet, when twenty-one years old, from the persons who held it in trust for him, and on his death, March 25, 1853, left it to your father. Your father died intestate in April, 1898, and the bracelet passed into your mother's keeping, there being no son. Your mother died within the last year. Therefore, the bracelet is now, or should be, in your possession. You see," she concluded, "I have taken pains to acquaint myself with your family history."