He puffed his cigar in silence for a moment.  Langham’s had gone out and he was nervously chewing the end of it.

“What did I say?” he asked at length.

“Oh, all sorts of damn nonsense.  You’re smart enough sober, but get you drunk and you ain’t fit to be at large!”

“What did I say?” repeated Langham.

“Better let me forget that,” rejoined Gilmore significantly.  “And look here, Marsh, I was sweating blood Saturday when they had Nelson on the stand, but it’s clear he had no suspicion that my rooms were occupied on the night of the murder.  You were blue about the gills while Moxlow was questioning him, and I don’t wonder; as I tell you, I wasn’t comfortable myself, for I knew well enough how that bit of burnt bond got into the ash barrel—­”

“Hush!  For God’s sake—­” whispered Langham in uncontrollable terror.

Gilmore laughed.

“My lord, man, you got to keep your nerve!  Look here, Mount Hope ain’t going to talk of anything but the McBride murder; you are going to hear it from morning to night, and that’s one of the reasons you got to keep sober.  You’ve done your best so far to queer yourself, and unless you listen to reason you may do it yet.”

“I don’t know what you mean—­” said Langham.

“Don’t you, Marsh?  Well, I got just one more surprise in store for you, but I’ll keep it to myself a while longer before I spring it on you.”

He was thinking of Joe Montgomery’s story; if Langham did not prove readily tractable, that should be the final weapon with which he would beat him into submission.  Presently he said: 

“I’ve all along had my own theory about old man McBride’s murder, and now I’m going to see what you think of it, Marsh.”

An icy hand seemed to be clutching Langham’s heart.  Gilmore’s cruel smiling eyes noted his suffering.  He laughed.

“Of course, I don’t think North killed McBride, not for one minute I don’t; in fact, it’s a dead moral certainty he didn’t!” He leaned forward in his chair and looked into his companion’s eyes.  For an instant Langham met his glance without flinching and then his eyes shifted and sought the floor.  “I’ll bet,” said Gilmore’s cool voice, “I’ll bet you what you like I could put my hand on the man who did the murder!” and as he spoke he reached out and by an apparently accidental gesture, rested his hand on Langham’s shoulder.  “You wouldn’t like to risk any money on that little bet, eh, Marsh?” He sank back in his chair and applied himself to his cigar in silence, but his eyes never left Langham’s face.

Presently he took the cigar from between his strong even teeth.  “Now, I’m going to give you my theory,” he said.  “I want to see what you think of it—­but remember always, I believe in letting well enough alone!  They got North caged in one of those nice new cells down at the jail and that suits me all right!  My theory is that the man who killed McBride was needing money