"He is trying to get out of it," he thought. "And wants to lay the blame on me. He is sure I should refuse. But I will not refuse. I have him cornered now, and I will not let him go." "Let it be as you say," he said, shortly. "If your daughter will have me, I will marry her. Now write!" The accused man hesitated. "Very kind of you, I'm sure," he said. "But how am I to know you will keep your word?" "Of course," said Sven. "I was waiting for you to ask that. Now, if you think a moment, you will understand that in a place like this walls have ears. There are witnesses already to the fact that I have promised to marry Julia Lamprecht, provided that she consents. I cannot escape now. As long as I wish to be looked on as an honourable man, I cannot escape. Now, sit down at the table and write!" Lamprecht sat down at the table. He took up the pen, dipped it in the ink, and groaned. Sitting there, pen in hand, he sought once more for that love for his daughter. It might, perhaps, have been there in his soul at the time when he hoped to find a home with her, but now--now that he was asked to give up his freedom for her sake, it was nowhere to be found. He wrote with the pen upright, and with the pen aslant; dipped again and again, splashed the ink about, and at last it was done. "All I ever promised you was to _answer_ the questions," he said, and handed Sven Elversson the paper. And Sven Elversson read, and saw that the judge's three questions were answered with three crooked, straggling words: "_No_" and "_No_" and "_No_." Beneath was the signature, Julius Martin Lamprecht, and finally a single sentence, rambling and ill-spelt: "I would confess if I was guilty, but I am not." "You will not get the five thousand kronor for that," said Sven Elversson, quietly. "I didn't suppose so," returned the other. "But I've got you to marry my girl. I never promised you but I would answer the questions if you agreed to marry my daughter. And I've done it. I'll be acquitted, and I've got a good husband for her." He stood there throwing out his chest, proud of his victory. Sven Elversson flushed angrily. His humility had disappeared, and his manner toward the accused was less kind than before. "I might have thought it," he said. "I ought to have known what a scoundrel you were. I have seen how you treated those two poor creatures after you had killed them. What made you put out their eyes?" he asked passionately. "Put out their eyes!" cried the accused. "That's not true. Someone else must have done that. When I left them----" He broke off, bit his lips, and staggered, pale as death, to the wall of the cell. "Thanks," said Sven Elversson drily. "I knew how I could get you, if need should be. But I waited, as long as there was a chance, to make it easier for you." Next moment the murderer lay on his knees before him. "I didn't say it; I didn't say anything," he cried. "I didn't say it--it doesn't count--you tricked me!"