Slowly Jean Lescaut’s mouth opened. The lips parted, but no sound came forth.
“Speak,” cried Van Horne sternly.
“I have been executed, I cannot speak. I am dead.” The words came from the man in jerky, spasmodic sentences as if torn from him against his will.
“Tell me, I command you, what has happened since I left you this morning.”
“I am dead,” repeated the murderer in a dull, mechanical tone.
Dr. Van Horne stepped once more to the chair. He held one hand firmly against the man’s forehead. The other he reached down behind the head and pressed at the base of the brain.
Again the man began to speak, this time more rapidly than before, but in a harsh, cackling voice.
“They came and took me from my cell and put me in a chair. They strapped me down, and put sponges on my spine and on my ankles. Then they put ten thousand needles into my body, and I began to grow cold and numb. My heart stopped beating, and I could not breathe. And now I am dead.”
“But you are breathing.”
“And now I am dead,” repeated the other mechanically.