“You did, though, didn’t you?” the Voice insisted.
“Yes, but how did you know?” repeated Defoe.
“Never mind how,” said the Voice. “I’ll wager you’ve had the same dream pretty often in the last dozen years, too. It must be hell to have a scene like that forever before your mind, so that you’re always in dread of dreaming about it—”
“What scene?” demanded Defoe. “Are you a mind reader—a wizard—what are you?”
The Voice chuckled.
“None of those,” it said. “As I was saying, you must be afraid, almost, to go to bed at night. I would be, if I thought I might dream of sending an innocent man to the gallows—”
“Stop!” Defoe fairly shouted. “Damn it all, come around here where I can see you!” and he made an instinctive move to turn about and confront his tormentor.
The firm pressure of an automatic barrel against his temple halted him.
“Don’t make the mistake of turning around!” again warned the Voice incisively.
Then, in a lighter tone, it went on: