The other's fingers continued to stray about the chair arms.
"You've got to tell me what you know—all you suspect," Garth urged. "We've murder on our hands. What do you know?"
Alden's head rose and fell affirmatively.
"Out with it."
But Alden did not answer, although his eyes burned brighter; and Garth guessed.
"Speak, Mr. Alden," he begged.
Alden's lips moved. His throat worked. His face set in a grotesque grimace.
"There's danger for all of us," Garth cried. "The time for silence has passed."
Then Alden answered, but it was only with that helpless, futile sound—such a whimper as escapes unintelligibly from the fancied fatality of a nightmare.
Garth drew back. Now when it was too late Alden wanted to talk. Now when he had been robbed of the power he craved the abandonment of words.