our way
to the Tombs to see Winters. It was not a pleasant visit to make and I
would willingly have escaped it, but I had to comply with Littell's
wish.

When we reached the building and had been admitted, I introduced my
companion to the warden, explaining that he was to defend Winters. The
warden looked him over with interest, saying as he shook hands:

"Not an easy job of yours, I fear, sir"; and then addressing me: "You
will not find the prisoner looking any better since your last visit."

"Is he any worse than he was?" I inquired; "for I had expected to find
him improved by his rest and confinement."

"Yes," he replied; "he is in a bad way, I fear."

When Winters made his appearance, I appreciated the meaning of the
warden's statements. He had grown pale and thinner since his confinement
and seemed weaker. Of course the immediate effects of dissipation had
disappeared, but behind them they had left the evidence of a man really
ill. He recognized me with evident pleasure, but showed little interest
in Littell even after I had explained the occasion of his visit.

"It is no use," he said, "I can see by the papers that everybody thinks
I am guilty."

"But I don't!" said Littell promptly. "I feel sure you are not guilty
and that is why I am going to defend you."

The strong confident tones of Littell acted like a tonic on the man. He
braced up and seemed to shake off much of his despondency.

"And you have read all about it too?" he asked.

"Yes," Littell said, "and I am here now to hear the truth about it from
you, so tell me everything."

Winters then repeated carefully his whole story as he had told it to me.
It differed in no particular from the previous recital, and satisfied me
more than ever of his innocence.

Littell listened closely and when he had finished asked him, in a
conversational way, many questions about details; questions that seemed
natural and innocent in themselves, and which were promptly and freely
answered, but questions that, I felt, would have confounded and tripped
up a guilty man or an untruthful one.

When the interview was concluded and we were on our way uptown, Littell
said to me:

"That man is starving for hope and sympathy, for freedom and sunlight.
He is innocent, too, Dick! and we must save him."

I concurred heartily in his opinion; "And what further can I do to help
you?" I asked.

"Nothing more just now, I think," he answered. "There is too little time
left