The wounded man groaned, slightly moving his head.
“Stand back, all of you!” commanded the Colonel, with a sudden accession of his old brave spirit. And as they obeyed he himself approached the couch, a look of stern resolution upon his face. “Allison must speak, he must clear up this mystery before he dies.”
The Persian motioned all the warriors save Dirrag to leave the room. Then he drew from his robe a small phial and forced its contents between Allison’s set lips.
In a moment the young man groaned again, and then slowly opening his eyes, gazed vacantly upon the group around him.
“Allison,” said his father—firmly, but in a tone less harsh than before—“here is Howard Osborne, whom I always have accused of forging, seven years ago, my check for twenty thousand dollars. He claims that he is innocent.”
Allison moved restlessly, his eyes wandering from face to face as if in search of some one who was not present.
“I—I believe Howard is innocent,” he answered, with much difficulty.
“Who was the culprit, then?”
The wounded man stared back into his eyes, but made no reply.
“They say you are dying, my son,” continued the old man, gently, “and if you have done wrong—if you have ever deceived me—now is the time to confess all, and clear the name of an innocent man.”