"Take what away?" asked the warden.
"I threw the acid in her face--I did it--I confess. Take me out of here."
Ballard's condition was pitiable; it was only an act of mercy to let him out into the corridor. There he crouched in a corner, like an animal at bay, and clasped his hands to his ears. It took half an hour to calm him sufficiently for him to speak. Then he told incoherently what had happened. On the night before at four o'clock he had heard a voice--a sepulchral voice, muffled and wailing in tone.
"What did it say?" asked the warden, curiously.
"Acid--acid--acid!" gasped the prisoner. "It accused me. Acid! I threw the acid, and the woman died. Oh!" It was a long, shuddering wail of terror.
"Acid?" echoed the warden, puzzled. The case was beyond him.
"Acid. That's all I heard--that one word, repeated several times. There were other things, too, but I didn't hear them."
"That was last night, eh?" asked the warden. "What happened to-night--what frightened you just now?"
"It was the same thing," gasped the prisoner. "Acid--acid--acid!" He covered his face with his hands and sat shivering. "It was acid I used on her, but I didn't mean to kill her. I just heard the words. It was something accusing me--accusing me." He mumbled, and was silent.
"Did you hear anything else?"