Morrison whirled about to face Average Jones. But he did not answer the question. He only stared.
“Carroll Morrison,” continued Average Jones in his quiet drawl, “the half-hour before he—er—committed suicide—er—Nick Karboe spent in the office of the—er—Universal with Mr. Waldemar and—er—myself. Catch him, Waldemar!”
For Morrison had wilted. They propped him against the wall and he, the man who had insolently defied the laws of a great commonwealth, who had bribed legislatures and bossed judges and browbeaten the public, slobbered, denied and begged. For two disgustful minutes they extracted from him his solemn promise that henceforth he would keep his hands off the laws. Then they turned him out.
“Suppose you enlighten me with the story, gentlemen,” suggested the governor.
Average Jones told it, simply and modestly. At the conclusion, Governor Arthur looked from the wrecked camera-gun to the mathematical formula which had fallen to the floor.
“Mr. Jones,” he said, “you’ve done me the service of saving my life; you’ve done the public the service of killing a vicious bill. I wish I could thank you more publicly than this.”
“Thank you, Governor,” said Average’ Jones modestly. “But I owed the public something, you know, on account of, my uncle, the late Mayor Van Reypen.”
Governor Arthur nodded. “The debt is paid,” he said. “That knowledge must be your reward; that and the consciousness of having worked out a remarkable and original problem.”
“Original?” said Average Jones, eying the diagram on the envelope’s back, with his quaint smile. “Why, Governor, you’re giving me too much credit. It was worked out by one of the greatest detectives of all time, some two thousand years ago. His name was Euclid.”