"I'd be a fool to confess to something I did not do," Mortenson informed him quickly. "You fellows seem pretty sure of yourselves, don't you?"
"Now, Mortenson," said Barton, shoving a cigar between his teeth and pausing to chew at it. "I don't want any beating about the bush. I want you to tell me exactly where you were this morning at nine-fifteen."
"That's easy, Barton," said Mortenson coolly. "I was lying right there on the floor, knocked out completely. As usual I worked late last night. About midnight a masked man came in here, robbed me of my Fifth Dimensional apparatus, knocked me cold with his gun and skipped. That's the reason for the bandages on my head and the cause for that blood-stain on the floor near your feet. I came too about an hour ago, had Doctor Brandon sew me up, and then bought a newspaper which informed me of the bank holdup and killing.
"I hardly blame you for suspecting me, but you can see at a glance that I had nothing to do with the bank affair, except, of course, giving the crook instructions as to how to operate the apparatus."
"Why did you do that?" snapped Barton.
"To live, Barton," the scientist retorted. "You probably know what it is to face a gun, not knowing what minute it might go off."
The detectives exchanged baffled glances and Barton bent over to appraise the blood-stain on the floor. Riley's eyes roved about the room and finally concentrated on Mortenson's bandaged head.
"Suppose we have a look at that head, Mortenson," he said with a shrug of his powerful shoulders. Barton looked up.
"Never mind that, Riley," he said authoritively. "Let Wagner do that at headquarters."
"You mean you are going to take me in on suspicion?" Mortenson sat bolt upright.