Meredith Davis

“ 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?" ”

“ We, the jury, find the defendant, Richard Bland, guilty of murder in the first degree, in manner and form as charged.
Allen Defoe, foreman of the twelve men, listened with impassive face as the judge read away the life of the prisoner in the dock—the man whose death warrant Defoe had signed only a few minutes before. As the judge finished, Defoe glanced warily toward the prisoner. Somehow, he preferred to avoid catching his eye.
Bland, a slight, rather uninteresting type of man, stood with bowed head; Defoe now turned his gaze full upon him. ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”

“ It was too cold and damp, with a fog beginning to gather, to permit of sitting on deck, so he paced to and fro briskly up near the fore deck beneath the pilot’s tower. The nervousness of the few moments in the smoking-saloon, when he imagined himself being watched, transmuted itself into a shiver as the foggy dampness penetrated to his marrow. ”

“ But of course he hadn’t—he hadn’t even left the stateroom—and suddenly he was tumbled on to the edge of the berth, the pressure against his abdomen increasing.
A vague nausea gripped him. He clutched at his abdomen and his fingers wrapped themselves around the barrel of an automatic pistol. The pressure against his body became unbearable, piercing. . . . Defoe crumpled back into the berth and the convulsive effort restored his speech.
“What the hell are you doing?” he exploded. “Get out of here! What are you trying to do—stab me with a pistol?” ”

“ 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 settle 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. ”

“ 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." ”