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me: but he didn't. Evidently the soul—the rebel soul within him—sensed my desire and refused to gratify it. Anyway he raised the gun, smiled mirthlessly, and shot himself through the brain.
"And I sensed the rebel soul leaving his body in that fraction of an instant before death came to body and brain. And over in one corner I heard a little whimpering sound. Gentlemen, it was the wail of a broken soul, for I believe that the soul of a dead body can never again take up abode on earth.
"That is all, my friends. I understand that the hunchback is to be brought here. Am I right?"
"Bring the prisoner in," directed the warden.
"Believe that yarn?" I asked Sanders.
"I think he's insane," was the answer.
Into the room was brought, then, Rolf Jaeke, the hunchback and—if the story were true—the arch criminal, the stealer of souls. He was cool and collected. He heard the charges against him, admitted them without exception, and told them that young Fowler was right.
"You will hang for this," said the warden.
"I will not hang," said the hunchback. "Presently I will cast out my soul from this worthless, scorned shell of body and brain and take possession of a fine, clean body like—ah, perhaps like that of the late judge's son."
Young Fowler scowled but he was very calm.
"It would take a little time to force out my soul."
"Oh, perhaps."
"Did you ever stop to think what would happen were you killed while
(Continued on page 143)
