Defoe checked an insane desire to leap out of bed and make a break for the door—anything, to escape this tormentor at his back! But he remembered the automatic....
He got himself under a semblance of control before he answered:
“Your suggestions were ridiculous. Why should I have anything to confess about the Bland trial, or why should I commit suicide over it?” He even essayed a laugh meant to be derisive.
But the intruder chose to ignore Defoe’s evasions. His next remark was as startling as it was illuminating:
“Did you know,” said the Voice, “that of the other eleven jurors who convicted Bland, only seven are living—still?”
“No; I haven’t kept track of the other eleven men,” replied Defoe, annoyed subconsciously by the detachment that the Voice gave to the word “still.”
“Well, I have,” said the Voice. “Two of the surviving seven are in insane asylums; two of the four dead committed sui—.”
Defoe could brook it no longer. He wrenched around in bed to grapple with his antagonist, forgetful, in his madness, of the automatic. But before he could free himself from the bedclothes the lamp was snapped out, and Defoe was left ignominiously tumbled in the darkness on the floor.
A chuckle from the vicinity of the bedroom door told him of his guest’s departure....
When morning came, after the nerve-racking night, Defoe found it hard to realize that his two experiences with the Voice really had taken place. None the less, he knew they were preying on his vitality, on his brain-functions.