Defoe thought the judge never would stop fumbling with his cap. And finally the judge lost track of the jury’s verdict and had to mess through the scattered papers before him until he found it. He didn’t really require it to pronounce sentence of death upon the man in the dock. Hunting it, though, delayed the inevitable a few seconds; and Defoe wondered, since he himself was near to screaming out with impatience, how the prisoner could stand it without going suddenly mad.
“For God’s sake, read the death sentence!” exclaimed Defoe under his breath, but loud enough to arouse a nod of approval from the two jurors nearest him.
A moment later the judge found his voice:
“The prisoner will face the court.”
Slowly, deliberately, the prisoner stepped forward in the dock, leaning slightly against the railing and letting one hand rest upon it. He looked squarely at the judge now, although he barely could distinguish his features in the dimness.
Again the judge spoke, and this time his voice was hurried and strained:
“The sentence of the court is that the prisoner be taken, between the hours of seven a.m. and six p.m. on Tuesday, in the week beginning October 22 next, from the place of confinement to the place of execution, and there be hanged by the neck until he is dead--dead--dead!... And may God, in His infinite wisdom, have mercy on your soul!”
The judge sank back heavily into the safety of his chair. His hand swept up to brush his forehead and with the same motion it whisked off the detestable little black cap.
The prisoner remained staring at the judge as one who is puzzled at a strange sight. Perhaps he would have stood there untold minutes if a woman’s hysterical laugh, half-choked by a sudden upraised hand, had not broken the tension of the entire room. A bailiff tiptoed to the woman, and, as if revived to duty by the same cause, a prison guard strode forward to lead the condemned man away.
Defoe could have reached out and touched Bland as he passed the jury on his way to the cell across the street. But Defoe had no desire even to look at Bland; indeed, he did not, until Bland’s back was passing out of sight through the door on the other side of the jury box. Mechanically, then, Defoe filed out with the other jurors as the judge announced adjournment.
And the black cap lay forgotten on the rim of the judge’s wastebasket, where the janitor found it that evening and crossed himself fervently as he timidly salvaged it from ignoble oblivion.
_II._
Defoe awoke with a shudder.
There was a moment or two, as is always the case when one arouses from heavy, dream-burdened slumber, during which Defoe could not tell where his dream ended and realities began. He blinked experimentally into the smouldering fire in the open grate before him; yes, he was conscious. For further verification of this he drew forth his watch and noted the hour. The glow from the fire was scarcely sufficient for reading the dial and Defoe leaned forward the better to see. He was still too drowsy even to reach around and turn on the electric lamp on the table behind him.
Still he was not certain whether he was yet dreaming, until--
“Don’t budge, Defoe! I’ve got you covered!”
The Voice was close to his left ear. Its commanding acerbity quelled Defoe’s impulse to spring to his feet; and as he gripped the arms of the chair tensely he managed to challenge his unseen intruder:
“Who are you? What do you want here?”
The Voice moved a little upward and back before it answered:
“You’ve just had a nasty dream, Defoe. Perhaps I--”
“How do you know I did!” interrupted Defoe.
“You did, though, didn’t you?” the Voice insisted.
“Yes, but how did you know?” repeated Defoe.
“Never mind how,” said the Voice. “I’ll wager you’ve had the same dream pretty often in the last dozen years, too. It must be hell to have a scene like that 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 on 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 rippling 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 suppose the European papers would bother with a piece of American news like that, though.”
“No. I never read anything about the case after I left this country,” said Defoe.
“That’s odd. I’d have thought you would have followed the case through to the end,” the Voice said, half-musingly. “But still, if you had, perhaps you would not be here tonight.”
“Why not? What difference would it have made?”
“I don’t know. That’s merely my surmise,” said the Voice.
A faint footstep padded through the hall outside the living-room.
“Is that you, Manuel?” Defoe asked, wondering what would happen when his Cuban valet encountered the intruder behind the chair.
The footstep halted.
“Si, _senor_,” answered the man-servant, at a respectful distance from his master’s chair. “I come to see why you sit up so late, _senor_.”
Defoe laughed mirthlessly. “Well, truth to tell, Manuel, I am detained on business,” and he wondered again how Manuel had escaped noticing the other presence in the room.
“You mean you fell asleep, _senor_?” asked the valet.
“I did, but some friendly caller has kept me pretty well awake the last ten minutes.”
“But he has gone? And you come to bed now?” inquired the Cuban.
Defoe, after a pause, said, “Yes; I might as well go to bed, I guess.”
The Voice behind the chair broke in:
“Tell your valet you will smoke another cigar before you retire.”
Defoe settled down again in the chair.
“You heard, Manuel?” he asked. “You see, my visitor says he wishes me to smoke another cigar.”
“But I see no visitor, _senor_,” said the Cuban.
“You heard what he said, though,” Defoe insisted.
“No, _senor_. I only hear _you_ say he wish you to smoke another cigar,” explained the valet.
“Well, you ought to have your ears examined, Manuel. Get my box from the table and hand it to my visitor.”