There was a loud murmur in the body of the hall. A loud murmur stabbed with two or three faint shrieks from women.
The Bishop again leant over the table with his hands over his face.
Morton Sims was upon his feet. His hands were on Lothian's arm, his voice was pleading.
"No! no!" he stammered. "You mustn't say these things. You, you——"
Gilbert Lothian looked into the face of his old friend for a second.
Then he brushed his arm away and came right to the edge of the platform.
As he spoke once more he did not seem like any quite human person.
His face was dead white, his hands fell at his sides—only his eyes were awake and his voice was vibrant.
"I am a murderer. I killed and murdered with cunning, long-continued thought, the most sweet and saintly woman that I have ever known. She was my wife. Why I did this I need not say. You can all make in your minds and formulate the picture of a poisoned man lusting after a strange woman.
"But I did this. I did this thing—you shall hear it and it shall reverberate in your minds. I am a murderer. I say it quite calmly, waiting for the inevitable result, and I tell you that Alcohol, and that Alcohol alone has made me what I am.