As he spoke, he moved a little closer, and stroked the other's sleeve gently. He was evidently anxious that Lamprecht should not think he bore him any personal ill will. Had the man been a lion escaped from its cage, its keeper might have coaxed it back behind the bars in the same way. It would be untrue to say that the accused did not regard him with uneasiness. Everyone filled him with uneasiness: judge and gaoler, magistrate and witnesses. But he could not help feeling that this Sven Elversson was little to be feared--he seemed, indeed, something weak in his mind. "One of those fellows that go about doing good," he told himself again. "Philanthropists, they call them." "I seem to understand a little now," he said aloud. "As soon as you found out that I went about looking for my daughter you thought you could use her as a bait to catch a poor fellow again for good." And he laughed in Sven's soft face. The lion was determined to keep its freedom, and cared nothing for the bait offered. "Thank you," said Sven Elversson, with his humblest smile. "What you say brings me just to the very thing I wanted to tell you. Look you, last summer I was doing some building work in the district. Not for myself, you understand, but to order. And I had to get some stone from a quarry just above the fishing village of Knapefiord, where we are now, and in that way I came into contact with a good many of the people there. And among them was a young woman named Julia Lamprecht. It was an unusual name, and as soon as I saw your name in the papers I remembered her." The accused rose to his feet. Again he felt that shiver through his body. His face twitched, his eyelids quivered; it was evident that some emotion took possession of him at the mention of his daughter, though, truth to tell, he had been seeking her hitherto less from any warmth of real feeling than in the hope that she might perhaps be well off and able to give him a home. He thrust Sven Elversson aside carelessly, and stood up in the middle of the cell. "Is she here?" he asked. "I want to see her." His tone was that of a man who expects immediate obedience to his orders. But Sven Elversson did not lose countenance. "You shall see her," he said, kindly and gently as before, but not without firmness. "You shall sit and talk with her as you are doing now with me. But there is one thing to be done first. You must write the answers on that paper. You may think, perhaps, that we are cruel in trying to separate father and daughter in this way, but we must have that paper signed first."