A furious gust of passion had laid hold of him, the consciousness of his necessity, all-compelling and relentless, swept through his brain.  Money he must have!—­his success, his happiness, everything depended on it, and what could money mean to this feeble old man whose days were almost spent?

“I want you to let me have two thousand dollars!” he had insisted, as he placed his hand on the old merchant’s shoulder.  “Get it for me; I swear I’ll pay it back.  I’ll give you such security as I can—­my note—­”

McBride had laughed dryly at this, and he turned on his heel as though to reenter the office.  Langham shot a quick glance about him; the store was empty, the street before it deserted; he saw through the dingy windows the swirling scarfs of white that the wind sent flying across the Square.  Now was his time if ever!  Bitter resentment urged him on—­it was a monstrous thing that those who could, would not help him!

Near the scales was an anvil, and leaning against the anvil-block was a heavy sledge.  As the old merchant turned from him, he had caught up the sledge and had struck him a savage blow on the head.  McBride had dropped to the floor without cry or groan.

Langham passed his hand before his eyes to blot out the vision of that still figure on the floor, and a dry sob burst from his lips.

“Eh, did you speak, Marsh?” asked Gilmore.

“No,” said Langham in a whisper.

Gilmore laughed.

“You are seeing just how it all happened, Marsh.  There was a sledge by the anvil that stood near those scales, and when the old fellow wouldn’t come to time, my man lost all restraint and snatched it up, and a second later McBride was dead.  After that my man had things all his own way.  He went through the safe and took what was useful to him,—­and those damn bonds of North’s which weren’t useful,—­and skipped by the side door and out over the shed roof and down the alley, just as Joe said.”

Gilmore paused, and flicked away a bit of cigar ash that had lodged in a crease of his coat.

“That’s the whole story of the McBride murder.  Now what do you think of my theorizing, Marsh; how does it strike you?”

But Langham did not answer him.  The gambler’s words had brought it all back; he was living again the agony of that first conscious moment when he realized the thing he had done.  He remembered his hurried search for the money, and his flight through the side door; he remembered crossing the shed roof and the panic that had seized him as he dropped into the alley beyond, unseen, safe as he supposed.  A debilitating reaction, such as follows some tremendous physical effort, had quickly succeeded.  He had wandered through the deserted streets seeking control of himself in vain.  Finally he had gone home.  Evelyn was at his father’s and the servant absent for the day.  He had let himself in with his latchkey and had gone at once to the library.  There he fell to pacing to and fro; ten—­twenty minutes had passed, when the sudden noisy clamor of the town bell had taken him, cowering, to the window; but the world beyond was a vaguely curtained white.