"Ask for a recess," St. Vincent whispered.
Frona nodded her head. "And, Mr. Chairman, I make a motion for a recess until the man is cared for."
Cries of "No recess!" and "Go on with the business!" greeted the putting of it, and the motion was lost.
"Now, Gregory," with a smile and salutation as she took the stool beside him, "what is it?"
He gripped her hand tightly. "Don't believe them, Frona. They are trying to"—with a gulping swallow—"to kill me."
"Why? Do be calm. Tell me."
"Why, last night," he began hurriedly, but broke off to listen to the
Scandinavian previously sworn, who was speaking with ponderous slowness.
"I wake wide open quick," he was saying. "I coom to the door. I there hear one shot more."
He was interrupted by a warm-complexioned man, clad in faded mackinaws.
"What did you think?" he asked.
"Eh?" the witness queried, his face dark and troubled with perplexity.