Langham raised himself on his elbows and his lips moved convulsively, but only a dry gasping sound issued from them; he seemed to have lost the power of speech.
"If North didn't kill McBride, who did?" repeated Moxlow.
A mighty effort wrenched Langham, again his lips came together convulsively, and then in a whisper he said:
"I did," and fell back on his pillow.
There was a moment of stillness, and then from behind the long curtains at the window came the sound of hysterical weeping.
Moxlow, utterly dazed by his partner's confession, looked again at the clock on the mantel. Fifteen minutes had passed. It was a quarter after eight. His brows contracted as if he were trying to recall some half forgotten engagement. Suddenly he turned, comprehendingly, to Montgomery.
"My God!—North!" he exclaimed and rushed unceremoniously from the room.