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of the judge's son. Came the crash of a pistol.
We rushed in, but the judge was dead, the pistol with which he had taken his own life tightly clutched in his right hand. On the couch lay the son—his face livid with unspeakable fear, his eyes wide with terror, his body rigid as death.
It was a somber gathering in the office of the warden. The judge's son was there, the police magistrate and captain, two detectives, prison officials, and Sanders and myself from the press. We were met there to hear from the lips of the judge's son the story of what passed behind
the door. Afterward the hunchback
was to face young Fowler.
First, however, they listened to the guard who was head of the watch which had been placed over Rolf Jaeke. He said: "I noticed nothing unusual. The prisoner lay on his bed and did not move during the entire evening. He lay so still that once I thought he was actually dead. But a little after midnight he apparently awoke and began to scream that the judge was dead. 'Fourteen men,' he said. 'Fourteen men, and all have paid. I told 'em they must pay. Fourteen men are gone, and the judge is number fourteen.' Well, we quieted him by means I won't go into here."
Young Fowler spoke: "You are sure that the man made no move whatever between the hours of 11 and 12?"
"I'm positive, sir."
"You know this yourself?"
"I do. I kept watch from about 9 till the fool began to howl. During that time I saw every move he made."
The face of young Fowler went whit with pain.
"Gentlemen," he said, "had I followed the urge that was within my
