Then he told the warden all about it.
"Plan number two fails," said the warden, smiling grimly. "First a cipher, then bribery."
When the jailer was on his way to Cell 13 at six o'clock, again bearing food to The Thinking Machine, he paused, startled by the unmistakable scrape, scrape of steel against steel. It stopped at the sound of his steps, then craftily the jailer, who was beyond the prisoner's range of vision, resumed his tramping, the sound being apparently that of a man going away from Cell 13. As a matter of fact he was in the same spot.
After a moment there came again the steady scrape, scrape, and the jailer crept cautiously on tiptoes to the door and peered between the bars. The Thinking Machine was standing on the iron bed working at the bars of the little window. He was using a file, judging from the backward and forward swing of his arms.
Cautiously the jailer crept back to the office, summoned the warden in person, and they returned to Cell 13 on tiptoes. The steady scrape was still audible. The warden listened to satisfy himself and then suddenly appeared at the door.
" Well?" he demanded, and there was a smile on his face.
The Thinking Machine glanced back from his perch on the bed and leaped suddenly to the floor, making frantic efforts to hide something. The warden went in, with hand extended.
"Give it up," he said.
"No," said the prisoner, sharply.
"Come, give it up," urged the warden. "I don't want to have to search you again."
"No," repeated the prisoner.
"What was it, a file?" asked the warden.
The Thinking Machine was silent and stood squinting at the warden with something very nearly approaching disappointment on his face -- nearly, but not quite. The warden was almost sympathetic.
"Plan number three fails, eh?" he asked, goodnaturedly. "Too bad, isn't it?"
The prisoner didn't say.
"Search him," instructed the warden.
The jailer searched the prisoner carefully. At last, artfully concealed in the waist band of the trousers, he found a piece of steel about two inches long, with one side curved like a half moon.
"Ah," said the warden, as he received it from the jailer. "From your shoe heel," and he smiled pleasantly.
The jailer continued his search and on the other side of the trousers waist band found another piece of steel identical with the first. The edges showed where they had been worn against the bars of the window.
"You couldn't saw a way through those bars with these," said the warden.
"I could have," said The Thinking Machine firmly.
"In six months, perhaps," said the warden, goodnaturedly.
The warden shook his head slowly as he gazed into the slightly flushed face of his prisoner.
"Ready to give it up?" he asked.
"I haven't started yet," was the prompt reply.
Then came another exhaustive search of the cell. Carefully the two men went over it, finally turning out the bed and searching that. Nothing. The warden in person climbed upon the bed and examined the bars of the window where the prisoner had been sawing. When he looked he was amused.
"Just made it a little bright by hard rubbing," he said to the prisoner, who stood looking on with a somewhat crestfallen air. The warden grasped the iron bars in his strong hands and tried to shake them. They were immovable, set firmly in the solid granite. He examined each in turn and found them all satisfactory. Finally he climbed down from the bed.
"Give it up, professor," he advised.
The Thinking Machine shook his head and the warden and jailer passed on again. As they disappeared down the corridor The Thinking Machine sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
"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."