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useless.”
    “Useless!” cried the prisoner. “Why?
Why?
You tell me Riley couldn’t know these things. Well, I know them. Can’t you see that it means I’m not Riley. And if I became Riley, it was because of loss of memory. It was due to an explosion ten years ago that I had no control over.”
    Father Shane looked grim. He shook his head.
    “That’s right isn’t it?” pleaded the prisoner.
    “You may have read these things somewhere,” said the priest. “You may have just remembered them in this time of stress. Believe me I’m not accusing you of…”
    “I’ve told the truth!”
    “You must struggle against this unmanly cowardice,” said Father Shane. “Do you think I can’t understand your fear of death? It is universal. It is…”
    “Oh God, is it possible,” moaned the prisoner, “Is it possible?”
    The priest lowered his head.
    “They can’t execute me!” the prisoner said, clutching at the priest’s dark coat. “I tell you I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”
    The priest said nothing. He made no resistance. His body jerked in the prisoner’s grip. He prayed.
    The prisoner let go and fell back against the wall with a thud.
    “My God,” he muttered, “Oh, my God, is there no one?”
    The priest looked up at him.
    “There is God,” he said. “Let Him take you to His bosom. Pray for forgiveness.”
    The prisoner stared blankly at him.
    “You don’t understand,” he said in a flat voice, “You just don’t understand. I’m going to be executed.”
    His lips began to tremble.
    “You don’t believe me,” he said, “You think I’m lying. Everyone thinks I’m lying.”
    Suddenly he looked up. He sat up.
    “Mary!” he cried. “My wife. What about my wife?”
    “You have no wife, Riley.”
    “No wife? Are you telling me I have no wife?”
    “There’s no point in continuing this, my son.”
    The prisoner reached up despairing hands and drove them against his temples.
    “My God, isn’t there anyone to listen?”
    “Yes,” murmured the priest.
    Footsteps again. There was loud grumbling from the other prisoners.
    Charlie appeared.
    “You better go, Father,” he said, “It’s no use. He don’t want your help.”
    “I hate to leave the poor soul in this condition.”
    The prisoner jumped up and ran to the barred door. Charlie stepped back.
    “Watch out,” he threatened.
    “Listen, will you call my wife?” begged the prisoner. “Will you? Our home is in Missouri, in St. Louis. The number is…
    “Knock it off.”
    “You don’t understand. My wife can explain everything. She can tell you who I really am.”
    Charlie grinned.
    “By God, this is the best I ever seen,” he said appreciatively.
    “Will you call her?” said the prisoner.
    “Go on. Get back in your cell.”
    The prisoner backed away. Charlie signaled and the door slid open. Father Shane went out, head lowered.
    “I’ll come back,” he said.
    “Won’t you call my wife?” begged the prisoner.
    The priest hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he stopped and took out a pad and pencil.
    “What’s the number?” he asked wearily.
    The prisoner scuttled to the door.
    “Don’t waste your good time, Father,” Charlie said.
    The prisoner hurriedly told Father Shane the number.
    “Are you sure you have it right?” he asked the priest. “Are you positive?” He repeated the number. The priest nodded.
    “Tell her I…tell her I’m all right. Tell her I’m well and I’ll be home as soon as…hurry! There isn’t time. Get word to the governor or somebody.”
    The priest put his hand on the man’s shaking shoulder.
    “If there’s no answer when I call,” he said. “If no one is there, then will you stop this talk?”
    “There will be. She’ll be there. I know she’ll be there.”
    “If she isn’t.”
    “She will be.”
    The priest drew back his hand and walked down the corridor slowly, nodding at the other prisoners as he passed them. The prisoner watched him as long as he could.
    Then