"It is no great ordeal after all, is it, Mr. Welter?" he said. "Modern psychology does not put its subjects to torture like"—he halted, meaningly—"a prisoner in the Elizabethan Age!"
Dr. Annerly, bending over the record sheet, uttered a startled exclamation. Trant, glancing keenly at him, straighened triumphantly. But the young psychologist did not pause. He took quickly from his pocket a photograph, showing merely a heap of empty coffee sacks piled carelessly to a height of some two feet along the inner wall of a shed, and laid it in front of the subject. Welter's face did not alter; but again the pencils shuddered over the moving paper, and the watchers stared with astonishment. Rapidly removing the photograph, Trant substituted for it the bent wire given him by Miss Rowan. Then for the last time he swung to the instrument, and as his eyes caught the wildly vibrating pencils, they flared with triumph.
President Welter rose abruptly, but not too hurriedly. "That's about enough of this tomfoolery," he said, with perfect self-possession.
His jaw had imperceptibly squared to the watchful determination of the prize fighter driven into his corner. His cheek still held the ruddy glow of health; but the wine flush had disappeared from it, and he was perfectly sober.
Trant tore the strip of paper from the instrument, and numbered the last three reactions 1, 2, 3. This is the way the records looked:
