When Bucholz heard of the disappointment of his counsel, he was much chagrined, and accused Sommers of having arranged it so that Mr. Olmstead received his before the other was delivered. This, however, was proven to the contrary, and the fact was that even had there been anything hidden under the ground, Bucholz's defenders were too dilatory in going in search of them.
It was at the visit after the information had reached them of this fruitless search for important testimony, that Bucholz related to Sommers another dream, in which his former prison companion was said to have appeared to him as a detective, and as he finished the recital, he turned to his companion, and said:
"If you are a detective, and if you do take the stand against me, it is all over. I will tell my lawyers to stop the trial—that will be the end of it—and me."
Sommers laughed at this and turned the drift of the conversation to the question of the approaching trial and the evidence that would soon be produced against him.
He asked him in a quiet manner, if he had thrown the two old pistols where they had been found on the night of the murder, and Bucholz, with a smile, answered him:
"Oh, my dear fellow, you make a mistake; the murderers threw them there."
Sommers looked incredulously at him for a moment, and then replied:
"I did not ask you whether you killed the old man or not; but you must not think me such a fool as not to know it."
Bucholz laughed, a hard, bitter laugh, and the glitter of the serpent's came into the wicked blue eyes, but he made no denial.
"I never thought when I first became acquainted with you," continued Sommers, "that you knew anything about this murder, but rather thought you an innocent, harmless-looking fellow. Indeed I never imagined that you had nerve enough to do anything like that."