“That you murdered him in cold blood, and that the honor of the Service is at stake until you are hung.”

“There’s a lot in the view-point, isn’t there?  What if I said I didn’t kill Judge Kirkstone?”

Conniston leaned forward a little too eagerly.  The deadly paroxysm shook his frame again, and when it was over his breath came pantingly, as if hissing through a sieve.  “My God, not Sunday—­or Saturday,” he breathed.  “Keith, it’s coming tomorrow!”

“No, no, not then,” said Keith, choking back something that rose in his throat.  “You’d better lie down again.”

Conniston gathered new strength.  “And die like a rabbit?  No, thank you, old chap!  I’m after facts, and you can’t lie to a dying man.  Did you kill Judge Kirkstone?”

“I—­don’t—­know,” replied Keith slowly, looking steadily into the other’s eyes.  “I think so, and yet I am not positive.  I went to his home that night with the determination to wring justice from him or kill him.  I wish you could look at it all with my eyes, Conniston.  You could if you had known my father.  You see, my mother died when I was a little chap, and my father and I grew up together, chums.  I don’t believe I ever thought of him as just simply a father.  Fathers are common.  He was more than that.  From the time I was ten years old we were inseparable.  I guess I was twenty before he told me of the deadly feud that existed between him and Kirkstone, and it never troubled me much—­because I didn’t think anything would ever come of it—­until Kirkstone got him.  Then I realized that all through the years the old rattlesnake had been watching for his chance.  It was a frame-up from beginning to end, and my father stepped into the trap.  Even then he thought that his political enemies, and not Kirkstone, were at the bottom of it.  We soon discovered the truth.  My father got ten years.  He was innocent.  And the only man on earth who could prove his innocence was Kirkstone, the man who was gloating like a Shylock over his pound of flesh.  Conniston, if you had known these things and had been in my shoes, what would you have done?”

Conniston, lighting another taper over the oil flame, hesitated and answered:  “I don’t know yet, old chap.  What did you do?”

“I fairly got down on my knees to the scoundrel,” resumed Keith.  “If ever a man begged for another man’s life, I begged for my father’s—­for the few words from Kirkstone that would set him free.  I offered everything I had in the world, even my body and soul.  God, I’ll never forget that night!  He sat there, fat and oily, two big rings on his stubby fingers—­a monstrous toad in human form—­and he chuckled and laughed at me in his joy, as though I were a mountebank playing amusing tricks for him—­and there my soul was bleeding itself out before his eyes!  And his son came in, fat and oily and accursed like his father, and he laughed at me.  I didn’t know that such hatred could exist in the world, or