"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, good-naturedly. "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.