We were getting to be rather scared now, for Carpenter's silence was forbidding. But again he said: “I wish to be alone.” We took him upstairs to a bed-room, and shut him in and left him--but taking the precaution to lock the door. Downstairs, we stood and looked at each other, feeling like two school-boys who had been playing truant, and would soon have to face the teacher. “You stay here, Billy!” insisted the magnate. “You gotta see him in de mornin'! I von't!” “I'll stay,” I said, and looked at my watch. It was after one o'clock. “Give me an alarm-clock,” I said, “because Carpenter wakes with the birds, and we don't want him escaping by the window.” So it came about that at daybreak I tapped on Carpenter's door, softly, so as not to waken him if he were asleep. But he answered, “Come in;” and I entered, and found him sitting by the window, watching the dawn. I stood timidly in the middle of the room, and began: “I realize, of course, Mr. Carpenter, that I have taken a very great liberty with you--” “You have said it,” he replied; and his eyes were awful. “But,” I persisted, “if you knew what danger you were in--” Said he: “Do you think that I came to Mobland to look for a comfortable life?” “But,” I pleaded, “if you only knew that particular gang! Do you realize that they had planted an infernal machine, a dynamite bomb, in that room? And all the world was to read in the newspapers this morning that you had been conspiring to blow up somebody!” Said Carpenter: “Would it have been the first time that I have been lied about?” “Of course,” I argued, “I know what I have done--” “You can have no idea what you have done. You are too ignorant.” I bowed my head, prepared to take my punishment. But at once Carpenter's voice softened. “You are a part of Mobland,” he said; “you cannot help yourself. In Mobland it is not possible for even a martyrdom to proceed in an orderly way.” I gazed at him a moment, bewildered. “What's the good of a martyrdom?” I cried. “The good is, that men can be moved in no other way; they are in that childish stage of being, where they require blood sacrifice.” “But what kind of martyrdom!” I argued. “So undignified and unimpressive! To have hot tar smeared over your body, and be hanged by the neck like a common criminal!” I realized that this last phrase was unfortunate. Said Carpenter: “I am used to being treated as a common criminal.” “Well,” said I, in a voice of despair, “of course, if you're absolutely bent on being hanged--if you can't think of anything you would prefer--” I stopped, for I saw that he had covered his face with his hands. In the silence I heard him whisper: “I prayed last night that this cup might pass from me; and apparently my prayer has been answered.”