_Sommers suggests a doubt of Bucholz's Innocence._--_He employs
Bucholz's Counsel to effect his Release._--_A Visit from the State's
Attorney._--_A Difficulty and an Estrangement._
We will now return to the prison at Bridgeport and to the unfortunate
man confined within its walls for the murder of his master.
The intimacy and friendship existing between Sommers and Bucholz
continued to increase as the days passed slowly on. By degrees and in
fragmentary conversations Sommers had learned the story of the murder
from his companion. He had advised him repeatedly about his
deportment in the prison, and as to his manner of conducting himself
upon his approaching trial. He had evinced a deep sympathy for his
unfortunate position, and, by timely suggestions and judicious
warnings, had led the accused man to rely upon him, in a material
degree, for advice and comfort.
During all this long intimacy Bucholz never wavered in his
protestations of innocence, or in his consistent statement of the
knowledge which he professed to have of the murder of Henry Schulte.
One day they were sitting together in the cell of Sommers. Bucholz
was in a very pleasant humor, owing to some event that had
occurred--a visit from some ladies of the village--and turning to
Sommers, he laughingly said:
"Ah, Sommers, it seems very strange that you and I should be in
prison, while others are free and enjoying the brightness and
pleasures of liberty."
"Yes," replied his companion, "but if we had both behaved ourselves
better, we would not be here."
Bucholz's manner changed instantly. He became livid in the face, his
lips trembled, and casting a searching look at his companion, he
said:
"But I did not do this thing that I am accused of."
Quietly and calmly his companion returned his glance, and then he
laughingly said:
"Oh, I know all about that. You can't fool me."
Bucholz did not reply. In a few moments he turned away and left the
cell, and the subject was not mentioned between them for several
days.
A short time after this, Sommers complained of the length of his
confinement, and wished that he might have his bail reduced, in order
to effect his deliverance. He also suggested that if he could once
get out of the jail he could work for his friend--in whose welfare he
was warmly interested--in a manner that would greatly benefit him.
Bucholz, apparently ignoring this proposition, seemed anxious to
revert to their previous conversation, and began by referring to his
friendly relations with Henry Schulte during his lifetime, and
complained of the absurdity of placing him in jail upon the charge of
murdering him.
"Why," said he, "he promised to take me with him to Germany and make
me inspector of his estates there, and I should probably have been
heir to many thousands of dollars at his death. Would I not be a fool
to kill him?"
Sommers listened patiently to the long recital, which he knew did not
contain a particle of truth, and upon its conclusion he remarked, in
a light, careless way:
"Now, William, between you and I, I actually believe that you had
something to do with this murder."
Again that deathly pallor overspread his face; he became confused and
scarcely able to speak--but at length, recovering himself with an
effort, he declared his innocence, and said that he could not sit
upon the bed enjoying health if he had done this deed, or knew the
parties who had.
"Why," continued he, "I would not have gone to Norwalk that night and
reported the murder if I had done it. Ah, my dear Sommers, you will
learn when you go to Norwalk yourself from everybody there that all
my actions have been those of an innocent man."
Sommers looked doubtfully at his friend, and when he had finished
speaking, he said:
"Well, Bucholz, it is none of my business. I hate to see you in this
difficulty, and no matter whether you had anything to do with it or
not, I will do all that I can to get you out of it. I feel almost as
badly about it as you do."
"Ah, Sommers, I tremble at the thought of a verdict of guilty! I
think I should die upon the spot if I should hear that word."
Sommers comforted him as well as he was able to do; promised him
whatever assistance that was in his power to render him, and by
repeated assurances, he succeeded in quieting his fears and restoring
his tranquillity.
It was finally agreed between them that Sommers should make a decided
effort to be admitted to bail, and then securing his liberty, he
should devote himself to the interests of his friend Bucholz, but
during all their after conferences he never asserted his innocence to
Edward Sommers again.
The ubiquitous Brown had not been idle; he still watched these men
with ceaseless and jealous vigilance, and whenever they were together
he would endeavor to approach them as closely as possible. He saw
many things that excited his curiosity, but their conversations he
could not understand. These two men were the only prisoners who spoke
German, and on that account they were as secure from interruption as
though no prying eyes were watching them or no suspicions were
entertained in regard to their intimacy.
One day an incident occurred, however, which threatened to mar the
serenity of the intercourse of these two men, who had been so
strangely thrown together, but which eventually resulted in cementing
their union more closely.
Sommers had retained Mr. Bollman, the attorney for Bucholz, for the
purpose of having his bail reduced in order to effect his release
from imprisonment. This course was deemed necessary for two
reasons--his health had been considerably impaired by his long
confinement, and, besides that, it was decided that he could work
more successfully in the interests of Bucholz, could he be freed from
the restraint of the prison.
Mr. Bollman had met Mr. Olmstead upon the train and had broached the
matter to him. Mr. Olmstead had demurred to the reduction, for
reasons which seemed sufficient for his action, and had informed Mr.
Bollman that he would visit the jail, have an interview with Sommers,
and ascertain the full particulars of his case.
In accordance with that suggestion, he had called at the jail, and
Sommers had been notified of the desire of the State's attorney to
see him.
He was conversing with Bucholz in their usual friendly manner when
the notice was conveyed to him, and as Bucholz heard the name of the
visitor and the nature of the communication, he became confused and
apparently much frightened. He looked beseechingly at Sommers as he
turned to obey the summons, and tears came into his eyes as his
friend left the cell.
A hundred thoughts came crowding through his brain as Sommers
departed. What object could the State's attorney have in sending for
his friend? Could it be that their intimacy had been noticed and
reported, and that Mr. Olmstead would attempt to force him to divulge
their secrets? Would he offer such inducements to Sommers as would
outweigh his proffered friendship and induce him to betray the
confidence that had been reposed in him? He could not tell, and with
bitter, anxious and doubtful thoughts pressing upon his mind, he left
his cell and walked in the direction of the little room where he knew
the conference was being held.
No sound of the conversation reached his ears, and with aching heart,
his mind filled with perplexing and agonizing doubts, he returned to
his cell, and throwing himself upon the bed, he gave himself up to
the dreadful thoughts that possessed him.
At length he heard the opening and closing of the door, and soon the
returning footsteps of Sommers sounded along the passage.
Bucholz hastened out, and at once communicated his fears to his
friend--that he had betrayed him.
Sommers received this outburst with dignified calmness of demeanor,
and finally turning upon his companion with a show of anger, he said:
"I did not think that you had such a small opinion of me. I have been
a friend to you all along, and it is not probable that I should
change my position towards you now, but if you think so, I cannot
help it."
Saying which, and with an injured air, Sommers left his friend, and
going at once to his own cell he shut the door forcibly behind him.
[Illustration: _The quarrel between William Bucholz and Edward
Sommers._]
This was the commencement of an estrangement which lasted several
days. These two men, formerly so intimate and friendly, avoided each
other so pointedly that it was observed by all the inmates of the
prison, and to none did it afford more gratification than to the
curious and suspicious Brown, whose black eyes now glittered with a
wicked satisfaction as he noticed the coolness that existed between
the two men whose previous friendliness had occasioned him so much
concern.
He immediately began to make advances toward Bucholz, with, however,
but little success. William repelled his attempts at friendliness,
and seemed to be sorrowful and despondent. He missed the
companionship of Sommers. He felt convinced that he had accused him
unjustly, and the only man he cared for among the many by whom he was
surrounded held himself aloof from him, and he had no disposition to
make new friends.
Three days elapsed, during which no communication took place between
them, and this continued silence proved too much for William Bucholz.
He missed the companionship that had whiled away so many weary hours,
and unable to endure any longer the anger of his friend, he sat down
and indited a letter to Sommers, apologizing for his actions and
proffering a renewal of his friendship.
This message was duly received by Sommers, who, in addition to their
estrangement, appeared to be distressed about his own affairs, but
who, nevertheless, welcomed the repentant Bucholz with all the
cordiality of his disposition, and the coldness of the past few days
was forgotten in this renewal of their friendship.