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.