“The confession,” he said, turning to Gray. “Give me the confession, and you may yet live.”
“Not here—not here!”
Learmont came close up to him, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, he said,—
“Jacob Gray, a thought strikes me, there is no confession—this has been a creation of your own fancy, to alarm me. There is no confession.”
“There is,” cried Gray. “God knows it. There is—there is!”
As Gray spoke, he crept towards the window; a wild hope had occurred to him, that he might open it suddenly and dash out into the gutter, which was under it, and possibly escape.
“Produce it, then,” said Learmont to him.
“One moment for thought,” said Gray. “Spare me a moment—I will think—keep Britton off me—keep him away—his looks kill me—I shall go mad if he keeps so close to me.”
Gray then suddenly pushed a chair between himself and Britton and fled to the window. Learmont turned his eyes away as he saw Britton step over the obstruction with the cleaver uplifted. Scream after scream burst from Jacob Gray as he stood with the back of his head against the window.
There was an awful crashing sound, one gurgling shriek, and a noise of broken glass.