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 sparse eyebrows were lifted with astonishment; he was learning for the first time that this amazing good fortune had been in store for him. But the animated expression settled swiftly into disappointment since Henry Harrington was, like himself, a prisoner behind this grill of steel. Curiosity over that unbelievable contingency presently got the better of his natural taciturnity.

"How come?" he blurted, employing his army idiom.

"They charge me with murder," explained Henry with a gesture of disgust, "with killing that unknown devil on your island—the man in the blue shirt who was annoying Lahleet. Adam, I owe you an apology for getting you into this mess. The town is crazy. There is no justice in it," he avowed dejectedly. "They'll send you up for life tomorrow."

"Not send me up," protested Adam with a shake of the head. "Me tell truth to jury."

Henry gazed thoughtfully at that grave mask of faith and felt his heart bleed for this naive child-man. He had just had an experience of telling the truth to a Socatullo County jury—rather a large jury—and had failed to produce conviction in a single mind. "I wish you luck, Adam," he said. "Things have got away from me all right." And he drew up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Of course, I'm still hoping, "he confided presently from where he sat on the bed, elbows on knees, head in hand. But at eight o'clock Sergeant Thorpe came in and killed the hope.

"Not a thing doing, chief," he confessed sorrowfully. "God! It's fierce the way they are."

"They?" challenged Henry.

"Everybody."