Yes, the money was, indeed, all right, but not in the sense he deluded himself by believing.
They then discussed the various measures that were to be adopted in order to deceive the officers of the State.
It was arranged that the two pocket-books should be thrown behind a large rock that stood by the railroad track, directly opposite the path which led through the woods and along which the old man and himself were in the habit of traveling. Bucholz seemed over joyed at this proposition, and with many flattering expressions complimented his companion upon the wisdom of his suggestions. They would have continued further, but the time had arrived for closing the jail, and Sommers was compelled to take his departure.
Upon the occasion of his next visit he found a marked change in William Bucholz. He appeared to be silent and depressed in spirits. Horrible dreams had visited his fitful slumbers, and the accusing voice of the murdered man had rung in his ears during the solemn watches of the night. The pallid, blood-stained face of Henry Schulte had appeared to him, and his conscience had been an active producer of unrest and terror. Try as he would, that awful presence followed him, and he found sleep to be an impossibility. Hollow-eyed and sad, he greeted the detective, and as he cordially shook him by the hand, he noticed that a spasm of pain crossed the face of the prisoner.
"What is the matter, William?" he anxiously inquired. "Have you seen a ghost?"
"Oh, no," replied the other, with a shiver—"it is nothing, only a little cold, I guess."
The quick eye of the detective could not be deceived—something had occurred of more than usual import, and he was determined to ascertain what it was. Pressing him closely, Bucholz admitted, with a forced smile, that on the day before, he had been reading Schiller's play of "The Robbers," and that becoming excited by the heroic action of "Carl von Moor," he had thoughtlessly plunged his penknife, which he had in his hand at the time, into his own side. The blade had touched a rib, however, and that prevented the wound from being very serious. The blood had flowed copiously from the incision thus made, and the wound was even now very painful.
Sommers, at a glance, saw through this flimsy pretext, and realized at once what had happened. The miserable man, nervous and excited, had, in the excess of fear, attempted to take his own life. The grim specters of the night were too horrible to endure, and he had sought to escape their torments by the act which he had attempted.
His shirt had been saturated with blood, and he had been compelled to destroy it to prevent detection.
Sommers lectured him roundly upon this exhibition of weakness, and, after a time spent in friendly advice, he succeeded in reassuring him.