"Joseph Ballard," said one of the jailers. "He's accused of throwing acid in a woman's face. She died from it."
"But they can't prove it," gasped the prisoner. "They can't prove it. Please put me in some other cell."
He was still clinging to the warden, and that official threw his arms off roughly. Then for a time he stood looking at the cowering wretch, who seemed possessed of all the wild, unreasoning terror of a child.
"Look here, Ballard," said the warden, finally, "if you heard anything, I want to know what it was. Now tell me."
"I can't, I can't," was the reply. He was sobbing. "Where did it come from?"
"I don't know. Everywhere--nowhere. I just heard it."
"What was it--a voice?"
"Please don't make me answer," pleaded the prisoner.
"You must answer," said the warden, sharply.
"It was a voice--but--but it wasn't human," was the sobbing reply.