to rate that kind of devotion. Maybe he did have an occasional moment of abandonment when he would lick the butter from his knife. If we ever got through this mess I was going to find out. “That’s Mrs. Swanberg,” Youngquist said to Slim.

I looked his wife over in my best professional style. I thought I’d seen her some place, and a detective is supposed to remember faces, but I couldn’t quite place her. Anyway, there were now three blondes mixed in with that courtroom⁠—and that’s a lot of blondes. Mr. and Mrs. Swanberg sat down at one side opposite the jury-box where they could see the screen of the Brain-Finder as well as the judge. I suppose Swanberg had read the story and wanted to see what we were up to in his building. Mrs. Ellingbery sat across the counsel table from me. She was a winner if there ever was one.

Slim went on the stand. He demonstrated the Brain-Finder very feebly⁠—that is, innocuously. It was obvious that Youngquist was scared to death of what might happen.

And again Tom Ellingbery’s lawyers passed up cross examination of Slim. I knew they were waiting for me.

They were. “Do you understand this machine?” one asked me scornfully.

“No, sir.”

“You know how to work it, don’t you?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Do you mean to tell this court that you can adjust the dials and gadgets on this thing and see what I was doing last week or the week before?”

I tried to be cautious. “If it’s plugged in.”

“Okay, we’ll plug it in.”