Words came to his lips and died there, and for a space after Kedsty had gone he stared out into the green forest world beyond his window, seeing nothing.

Inspector Kedsty, quietly and calmly, had spoken words that sent his hopes crashing in ruin about him.

For even if he escaped the hangman, he was still a criminal--a criminal of the worst sort, perhaps, next to the man who kills another.

If he proved that he had not killed John Barkley, he would convict himself, at the same time, of having made solemn oath to a lie on what he supposed was his death-bed.
And for that, a possible twenty years in the Edmonton penitentiary! At best he could not expect less than ten.

Ten years--twenty years--in prison! That, or hang.
The sweat broke out on his face.