looking up into the deep-set, dark eyes of a tall, broad-shouldered, black-bearded man, who had arisen from the cot at his entrance.  Albert Graumann had a strong, self-reliant face and bearing.  His natural expression was somewhat hard and stern, but it was the expression of a man of integrity and responsibility.  Muller had already made some inquiries as to the prisoner’s reputation and business standing in the community, and all that he had heard was favourable.  A certain hardness and lack of amiability in Graumann’s nature made it difficult for him to win the hearts of others, but although he was not generally loved, he was universally respected.  Through the signs of nagging fear, sorrow, and ill-health, printed clearly on the face before him, Muller’s keen eyes looked down into the soul of a man who might be overbearing, pitiless even, if occasion demanded, but who would not murder—­at least not for the sake of gain.  This last possibility Muller had dismissed from his mind, even before he saw the prisoner.  The man’s reputation was sufficient to make the thought ridiculous.  But he had not made up his mind whether it might not be a case of a murder after a quarrel.  Now he began to doubt even this when he looked into the intelligent, harsh-featured face of the man in the cell.  But Muller had the gift of putting aside his own convictions, when he wanted his mind clear to consider evidence before him.

Graumann had risen from his sitting position when he saw a stranger.  His heavy brows drew down over his, eyes, but he waited for the other to speak.

“I am Detective Joseph Muller, from Vienna,” began the newcomer, when he had seen that the prisoner did not intend to start the conversation.

“Have you come to question me again?” asked Graumann wearily.  “I can say no more than I have already said to the Police Commissioner.  And no amount of cross-examination can make me confess a crime of which I am not guilty—­no matter what evidence there may be against me.”  The prisoner’s voice was hard and determined in spite of its note of physical and mental weariness.

“I have not come to extort a confession from you, Mr. Graumann,” Muller replied gently, “but to help you establish your innocence, if it be possible.”

A wave of colour flooded the prisoner’s cheek.  He gasped, pressed his hand to his heart, and dropped down on his cot.  “Pardon me,” he said finally, hesitating like a man who is fighting for breath.  “My heart is weak; any excitement upsets me.  You mean that the authorities are not convinced of my guilt, in spite of the evidence?  You mean that they will give me the benefit of the doubt—­that they will give me a chance for life?”

“Yes, that is the reason for my coming here.  I am to take this case in hand.  If you will talk freely to me, Mr. Graumann, I may be able to help you.  I have seen too many mistakes of justice because of circumstantial evidence to lay any too great stress upon it.  I have waited to hear your side of the story from yourself.  I did not want to hear it from others.  Will you tell it to me now?  No, do not move, I will get the stool myself.”