“You are very good,” said Mr. Juxon, quietly.  “If you will give him the things from time to time, I will take a nap.”

With that he went and lay down upon the couch, and in three minutes was as sound asleep as though he were in bed.  John sat by the sick man and looked at his flushed features and listened to the hard-drawn breath followed each time by that terrible, monotonous, mumbling groan.

It might have been three-quarters of an hour since the squire had gone to sleep when John thought he saw a change in Goddard’s face; it seemed to him that the flush subsided from his forehead, very slowly, leaving only a bright burning colour in his cheeks.  His eyes seemed suddenly to grow clearer and a strange look of intelligence came into them; his whole appearance was as though illuminated by a flash of some light different from that of the candles which burned upon the table.  John rose to his feet and came and looked at him.  The groaning suddenly ceased and Goddard’s eyelids, which had been motionless for hours, moved naturally.  He appeared to be observing John’s face attentively.

“Where is the squire?” he asked quite naturally—­so naturally that John was startled.

“Asleep in the next room,” replied the latter.

“I did not kill him after all,” said Goddard, turning himself a little as though to be more at his ease.

“No,” answered John.  “He is not hurt at all.  Can you tell me who you are?” For his life, he could not help asking the question.  It seemed so easy to find out who the fellow was, now that he could speak intelligibly.  But Goddard’s face contracted suddenly, in a hideous smile.

“Don’t you wish you knew?” he said roughly.  “But I know you, my boy, I know you—­ha! ha!  There’s no getting away from you, my boy, is there?”

“Who am I?” asked John in astonishment.

“You are the hangman,” said Goddard.  “I know you very well.  The hangman is always so well dressed.  I say, old chap, turn us off quick, you know—­no fumbling about the bolt.  Look here—­I like your face,” he lowered his voice—­“there are nearly sixty pounds in my right-hand trouser pocket—­there are—­Mary—­ah—­gave—­M—­a—­”

Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning began and continued.  John was horror-struck and stood for a moment gazing at his face, over which the deep flush had spread once more, seeming to obliterate all appearance of intelligence.  Then the young man put his hand beneath Goddard’s head and gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing the pillows, and giving him a little brandy.  He debated whether or not he should call the squire from his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing that Goddard had now returned to his former state, he supposed such moments of clear speech were to be expected from time to time.  He sat down again, and waited; then after a time he went to the window and looked anxiously for the dawn.  It seemed an intolerably long night.