It was some time before Bodney could speak. His words seemed dry in his mouth. At last he began: "I carried half of a heavy load. Something has thrown the other half on me, and I can't stand up under it—dispatch—railroad wreck—"
The Judge jumped out of his chair. "What!"
Bodney continued. "Yes. Goyle is dead."
"Oh, Goyle. I was afraid—where?"
"In Michigan, at fifteen minutes to eleven, yesterday. I have cause to note the time. The load—"
"Well, go ahead. But let me tell you now, George, you have no cause to regret the broken association. I deplore the man's death, of course, but I begun to feel that his influence upon you was bad. I had begun to dream about him, and to fear that he had a strange influence upon me. But go ahead."
"Half of it was crushing me, and I can't stand it all. I—"
"Why, what's the matter? What are you trying to tell. Go ahead."
"Judge, Goyle robbed the safe—Goyle and I—wait—I gave him the combination—he made up for Howard—I—"
The Judge seized the shears and raised them high above his head, his eyes fixed on Bodney's breast. Bodney did not flinch. The old man raised his eyes, to meet a steady gaze; and he stood with the shears high in his hand. He had uttered no outcry, no sound came from him, no sound that could have been heard beyond the door—only a low groan, like the moan of a fever-stricken man, turning over in his sleep.