A gray pallor was overspreading his face. It was called there by another presence in that room; an invisible but most potent presence.
"Do you understand me?" he repeated, for he saw that his words had made no impression on Moxlow.
"Go on, boss!" cried Montgomery, in a fever of impatience.
"Do you understand what I am telling you? John North did not kill McBride!" Langham spoke with painful effort. "Joe knows who did—so do I—so did my father—he knew an innocent man had been convicted!"
At mention of the judge, Moxlow started. He bent above Langham.
"Marsh, if John North didn't kill McBride, who did?"
But Langham made no reply. Weak, pallid, and racked by suffering, he lay back on his pillow. Joe leaned forward over the foot of the bed.
"Tell him, boss; it's no odds to you now—tell him quick for God's sake, or it will be too late!" he urged in a fearful voice.
There was a tense silence while they waited for Langham to speak. Moxlow heard the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
"If you have anything to say, Marsh—"