“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
convicted by a jury of your peers of the crime of murder. Have you anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced against you?”
“No, my lord,” he heard Graeme reply in a low voice.
“Cosmo Graeme,” he heard the judge continue, “the sentence of the Court is that you be carried from hence to the place from whence you came and from thence to the place of execution, and that the sheriff shall do execution upon you sometime between sunrise and sunset and that you shall be hung by the neck until you are dead—”
There was a knock at Micky’s door and the picture conjured up by his reverie was rudely shattered. By some trick of telepathy, perhaps, this unnerved man had been drawn back again to the wireless house.
“I saw your light still burning and I came back,” he said. “I can’t sleep. You don’t know what torture it is to lie in one of those state-rooms, staring at the ceiling hour after hour. I thought maybe if you had any work to do you 'd let me stay here with you.”
“Sure thing,” answered Micky. “Sit down145
