"Stop the execution!" he said, and Moxlow thought his mind wandered. "North didn't kill McBride," Langham went on. "Do you understand me--he is not the guilty man!" 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--" 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. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT THE LAST NIGHT IN JAIL Whether John North slept during his last night in jail the deputy sheriff did not know, for that kindly little man kept his arms folded across his breast and his face to the wall. The night wore itself out, and at last pale indications of the dawn crept into the room. There was the song of the birds and a little later the rumble of an occasional wagon over the paved streets. North stirred and opened his eyes. "Is it light?" he asked. "Yes," said the deputy. The day began with the familiar things that make up the round of life, but North was conscious that he was thus occupying himself for the last time. Then he seated himself and began a letter he had told Brockett he wished to write. Once he paused. "I will have time for this?" he asked. "All the time you want, John," said Brockett hastily, as he slipped from the room.