forever before your mind, so that you're always in dread of dreaming about it—"
"What scene?" demanded Defoe. "Are you a mind reader—a wizard—what are you?"
The Voice chuckled.
"None of those," it said. "As I was saying, you must be afraid, almost, to go to bed at night. I would be, if I thought I might dream of sending an innocent man to the gallows—"
"Stop!" Defoe fairly shouted. "Damn it all, come around here where I can see you!" and he made an instinctive move to turn about and confront his tormentor.
The firm pressure of an automatic barrel against his temple halted him.
"Don't make the mistake of turning around!" again warned the Voice incisively.
Then, in a lighter tone, it went on:
"If I were in your place, Mr. Defoe, do you know what I'd do?"
A pause. Defoe mumbled a faint "No."
"Well, I either would confess my whole knowledge of the affair—or—I'd commit suicide!"
Defoe started. It was uncanny, eerie, the way this mysterious Voice put into words the one gnawing thought that had plagued him the last dozen years of his life.
"Of course, you probably have contemplated those alternatives very often," the Voice continued. "But have you ever considered doing both? That is, did you ever think that you might confess first, thereby clearing an innocent man's name of murder, and then cheat the law yourself by committing sui—"
"For God's sake, stop that infernal suicide talk!" Defoe snapped. "In the first place, I don't know what 'affair' or what 'innocent man' you're talking about."
The Voice chuckled again. Defoe was beginning to hate that chuckle more than the feel of the automatic against his head. If the Voice kept chuckling it might drive him to desperation, to grapple with his armed inquisitor, even though he would court certain death in doing it.
"Why, there's no need to explain the obvious," the Voice replied, its chuckle drippling through the words. "Your dream ought to tell you that. Speaking of your dream again, Mr. Defoe, reminds me of a question I often wished to ask you: Did you see Bland at all after his conviction?"
"No, of course—" Defoe's guard had been down. He was fairly tricked, so he tried to run to cover again. "What—who is this Bland you're talking about?"
"Come, come, Mr. Defoe," said the Voice. "Think over your dream a moment. Surely you remember the man in the prisoner's dock—the man who took his sentence with head up, facing the judge like a Spartan! Surely you remember Richard Bland. But did you happen to see him again after that day?"
"No," Defoe said. "Why should I have seen him after my connection with his case ended?"
"But didn't you even write him a note expressing your regret at having had to perform the duty of—"
"Certainly not!" interrupted Defoe. "Who ever heard of a foreman of a jury doing such a thing? Besides, he deserved his punishment."
The Voice was silent a moment or two before it replied:
"We'll discuss the merits of the case later . . . And you didn't even go to see him hanged?"
"What manner of man do you think I am?" exclaimed Defoe. "Of course I didn't! I wasn't even in Chicago where he was hanged.
"No?" said the Voice. "Where were you?"
"A few weeks after the trial I had to go to Europe on a long business trip. I was gone a year or so. When I returned to this country I made my home here in New York City."
"So you never even read in the newspapers about Bland—" the Voice persisted. "I don't supposed the European papers would bother with a piece of American news like that, though."
