"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 anyway 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."