When the hum in the court-room had settled into an occasional whisper, the judge asked the prisoner if he would like to make a statement. The prisoner, a slender man, with hair holding a slight intention to curl, and with eyes large and willful, arose and made this statement:

John Flanders and I were the best of friends, though we were not drawn toward each other by any common ties of vocation. In the early part of my life I turned to literature, not that I expected to realize a fortune in such a pursuit, but because I could do nothing else. Flanders was a sort of general speculator. It seemed to me that every time he stepped out in the street he saw a dollar, chased it, overtook it, and put it in his pocket. My work was difficult and uncertain; and the pigeon-holes of my desk were often stuffed with rejected manuscripts. Gradually I discovered that I could not write if I knew that Flanders was in the same building in which I had a room. At first I regarded this feeling as a nervous freak, and tried to put it aside, but then, finding that every literary thought had flown away from me, I would discover that Flanders was in the building. One day when I heard his footsteps in the hall I called him into my room. "Flanders," said I, "you know that I have to make my living by literary work?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Well, but do you know that you contribute largely to my failure?"

"No," he replied; "how can that be?"

"It is in this way, Flanders: I can not write while you are in this building. Just so soon as you step into the elevator downstairs, my ideas droop and my pen splutters."

"I am sorry," he rejoined.

"I know you are," said I, "for there is not in the world a more sympathetic man than you are."

"If I am so sympathetic, then why should I disturb you so?"

"I don't know, Flanders, but you do disturb me. Now, I have a favor to ask of you."

"It shall be granted."

"It is this: please do not come into this building again."

"I will stay away," he said.

He did not come into the building again, and for a time I wrote with ease; but one day my ideas flew away and my pen cut through the paper. I knew that Flanders was not in the building, but I knew that he was in town. I strove to write, but this fact weighed upon me. I went out to look for Flanders. I found him in the Open Board of Trade, busily engaged in driving a bargain. I drew him to one side.

"Flanders," said I, "you have again put my ideas to flight."

"How so?" he asked. "I have not been in your building since you requested me to keep away."

"I know that; but you are in Chicago, and I have discovered that I can not write if we are in the same town. Now, it really makes no difference to you where you are."

"No," he replied.

"You can make a living anywhere."

"Yes."

"Well, then, leave this city."

"I will do so," said he. "I will go to New York."

I bade him an affectionate good-by, and he left on the next eastern-bound train. I returned to my work with a feeling of refreshment. My pen tripped over the paper with graceful airiness, and my thoughts, arrayed in gay apparel, sported joyously. Thus several weeks went by, but one day my pen stopped. I urged it, as a farmer urges a balky horse, but it refused to move forward. It was because Flanders was in this country. I wrote to him: "Flanders," said I, "you must leave New York—must leave the United States. I can not write if we are both under the same flag. I have a great piece of work to perform and I know that you will not seek to deprive me of the fame which its accomplishment will bring. Please leave this country."

A few days later I received the following reply: "I leave to-day for London."

Again I went to work with a thrill of pleasure. The rosebuds of thought opened with each passing breeze of inspiration. A month passed. One day my pen fell. Instantly my thoughts flew to Flanders, and I sadly shook my head. I could not write if Flanders and I lived in English-speaking countries. I wrote to him. He was still generous, for in his reply he said: "I appreciate your feelings. To-morrow I shall sail for Asia."

Again I experienced the usual relief, and the rosebuds which had so long been covered with dust, opened with blooming freshness. Flanders wrote to me from Pekin. Then my pen fell again. I could not write if he and I were in the same world. I replied to his letter: "Flanders," said I, "come home at once."

I waited two weary months. One night, just as I had lighted my lamp and sat down to dream with De Quincy, Flanders shoved open the door and entered the room. I threw my arms about him and pressed him to me for I loved him.

"Are you glad to see me, Flanders?" I asked, shoving him into an easy seat.

"Delighted," he replied. "What is it you would have me do?"

"Nothing but sit where you are."

He looked at me with affection. His eyes were soft and glowing. I reached into my desk and took out a sharp paper-cutter, and, as Flanders was beaming upon me, I stabbed him. He sprang to his feet and threw his arms about me, but I stabbed him again and again. He sank to the floor and I sat down to my work. Oh, how my thoughts flew. With wings that were feathered with silvery down and tipped with gold, they soared higher and higher. I——

"Hold on," said the judge. "I would not have permitted this statement had I not from the first been interested in its very curiousness. You are not charged with the murder of anyone named Flanders. You found a little boy playing among the flowers in a park and slew him."

The prisoner pressed his hands to his head. "Oh," he cried, "if Flanders be not dead I can not write. He would not deprive me of the fame——"

An officer led him away.