words, but you've believed it—ever since he came here. Say it to-night, Rand—now—when it costs more to say it than it ever did before. Be the fair man you are. Go back to the beginning, without the prejudice of what's happened to-night, and picture him and every act of his from the time he came to the penitentiary."
There was a long silence. Warden Rand drummed on the table, his eyes on his restless fingers, his brow knitted. The doctor sat motionless, watching him—waiting for him to speak.
"Well," said the warden heavily, at last, "I'll admit it. I've felt that way, it is true—if it does you any good to have me say so. But what difference does it make to-night whether he is innocent or guilty? He's a convict—in there—under life sentence."
"It makes just this difference"—Doctor Kreelmar's hand reached out again and rested on the warden's arm, and his fingers closed with a quick, earnest pressure. "It makes just this difference—if he's an innocent man, he is the man whose love is the kind of love I'd hope for for a daughter of mine—and never expect her to get. Rand, think of it, if that man is innocent, his sacrifice is as nearly analogous as human sacrifice could ever be to that Divine sacrifice of nineteen hundred years ago. I want you to think of it, Rand—we've got to face this thing calmly, old friend—and fight it out—for little Janet."
He drew back his hand and ran it slowly through his hair. Warden Rand leaned a little further forward over the table, his eyes full on the doctor, both hands out before him; the fingers, interlaced, working over each other, the white showing at the knuckles.
