some unexpected, unanticipated way, result in supplying a line of defence to the other that would shatter the structure he himself had so carefully reared.
And so the four days had passed; and now, on the morning of the trial itself, Varge rose soberly confident and prepared. He dressed quietly and ate the breakfast that was brought him. There was still some time before he would be taken into court, and he sat down on the edge of the cot to go over his story in his mind for the last time, as a final rehearsal, detail by detail. The sun streaming in through the grated bars caught a glint of gold in the brown of his hair, seemed to caress the massive, splendid head exultantly, and play softly on the clean-cut, thoughtful face, as he leaned a little forward, his chin cupped in one hand. For perhaps five minutes he sat there without motion, buried in thought, and then, as a key grated in the lock, he turned his head in calm inquiry.
The door opened and closed—Randall stood in the cell.
"I thought you had given it up, John," said Varge quietly.
"You'd deserve it if I had," responded Randall tartly. "You've tried hard enough to go to the devil in your own way. Well, what do you say this morning?"
Varge shook his head.
"There is nothing to say, John," he answered, with a serious, patient smile. "I am guilty, and I am ready to answer for it."
Randall, short, broad-shouldered, leaned against the door for a moment, and his cheery face clouded as he
