He held up a trembling hand, but without taking a step. He still swayed, like a man dangled on strings, against the piano.
"Yes; tell him!" urged Wilton.
Hastings handed Webster the envelope flap. Instead of looking at it, Webster let it drop on the piano.
"One of the words," Hastings said, "is 'pursuit.' The other two are uncompleted."
"And it's her handwriting, the daughter's?" Wilton said.
"Beyond a doubt."
Webster kept his unwinking eyes on the detective, apparently unable to break the spell that held him. For a long moment, he had said nothing. When he did speak, it was with manifest difficulty. His words came in a screaming whisper:
"Then, I'm in desperate shape!"
"Nonsense, man!" Judge Wilton protested, his voice raised, and, going to his side, struck him sharply between the shoulders. "Get yourself together, Berne! Brace up!"
The effect on the collapsing man was, in a way, magical. He stood erect in response to the blow, his elbows no longer seeking support on the piano. He got his eyes away from Hastings and looked at the judge as a man coming out of a sound sleep might have done. For a few seconds, he had one hand over his mouth, as if, by actual manipulation, he would gain control of the muscles of his lips.