fighter. He could take, his punishment, but only on his feet.

Again he cried in anguish:

"No! It was no dream, but a foul murder. And they blame me!"




CHAPTER II

DAVID HUME'S STORY


Brett closed the book with a snap.

"What good purpose can it serve at this time to reopen the miserable
story?" he asked.

Curiously enough, Hume paid no heed to the question. His lips quivered,
his nostrils twitched, and his eyes shot strange gleams. He caught the
back of his chair with both hands in a grasp that tried to squeeze the
tough oak.

"What else have you written there?" he said, and Brett could not help but
admire his forced composure.

"Nothing of any material importance. You were arrested, after an interval
of some days, as the result of a coroner's warrant. You explained that you
had a vivid dream, in which you saw your cousin stabbed by a stranger whom