"He wants you," he said.
Murray lay with his head in Moira's lap. On his face was stamped a waxy pallor. His nostrils were sunken and pinched in. A crimson froth showed at the corner of his mouth. But his tawny eyes blazed with the unconquerable fire of his spirit. As I stooped over him a mocking gleam radiated from their black depths, and his lips moved in almost voiceless speech.
"Sorry, eh?" I nodded, and the mockery became more pronounced.
"Would have—won you—boy—in—time." Moira wiped the dreadful bubbles from his lips.
"You—won't—carry—out—plot?" he asked.
"'Twould be dishonest to promise," I answered. "And I doubt if we are like to live much longer than you." The fingers of one hand fluttered strangely.
"Tut, boy—never—lose hope. Win—yet—myself."
His colorless lips parted in a ghastly smile at the shocked disbelief in my face.
"This—will be—end—of Flint. Kill me—kill himself." His fingers fluttered again, and Moira whispered——
"'Twill be his snuffbox he's after wanting, Bob."