said the Voice. “I’m curious enough to wish to know his name.” And the Voice chuckled once more.
"Damn that cackle! I'll tell you, if you choke off that infernal cackling! I'll tell you—yes! I can tell you, because I did it! I committed that murder, you understand? I did it! Now cackle all you want to! And I convicted Bland of it! Cackle, you damned little shriveled conscience! Ho, ho, ho-ho-ho! I think it's my turn—to—cackle—now!"
The words of the hysterical man rose to a maudlin scream that reverberated piercingly in the little stateroom.
"Now get out of here for good!" the raving Defoe shouted, recovering coherence of speech after a time. "Get out—before—I—"
A blinding glare of light came as Defoe reached for the door. The intruder had found the push button.
Defoe stared—then toppled to the floor.
"Bland! Bland! You! It's you. . . ."
And before the stranger that was Bland passed from the room he felt again of the heart of the craven hulk at his feet. The doctor had been right: The tumult in the breast of the twelfth juror had been too much.
If only Defoe had known that the Governor had pardoned Bland, his secret might have been safe forever.
