He appeared to be silent and depressed in spirits.
Horrible dreams had visited his fitful slumbers, and the accusing voice of the murdered man had rung in his ears during the solemn watches of the night.

The pallid, blood-stained face of Henry Schulte had appeared to him, and his conscience had been an active producer of unrest and terror.

Try as he would, that awful presence followed him, and he found sleep to be an impossibility.

Hollow-eyed and sad, he greeted the detective, and as he cordially shook him by the hand, he noticed that a spasm of pain crossed the face of the prisoner.
"What is the matter, William ?" he anxiously inquired.

"Have you seen a ghost ?" "Oh, no," replied the other, with a shiver--"it is nothing, only a little cold, I guess." The quick eye of the detective could not be deceived--something had occurred of more than usual import, and he was determined to ascertain what it was.