"But I'm caught, I'm caught in a net, and I can't get out--they lied to you--but no one will believe it any more than you do and--and it means twenty years for me--oh, God!--twenty years, and--" His hands went wriggling to his temples again, and he toppled back in a faint into the chair.
"You've killed him! You've killed my boy!" the old lady shrieked out piteously, and flung herself toward the senseless figure.
The man jumped for the table across the room, on which was a row of bottles, snatched one up, drew the cork, smelled it, and ran back with the bottle.

He poured a little of the contents into his cupped hand, held it under young Matthews' nostrils, and pushed the bottle into Mrs.
Matthews' hands.
"Bathe his forehead with this, Mrs.Matthews," he directed reassuringly.
"He'll be all right again in a moment.

There, see--he's coming around now." There was a long, fluttering sigh, and Matthews opened his eyes; then a moment's silence; and then he spoke, with an effort, with long pauses between the words: "Am--I--to--go--now ?" The words seemed to ring absolute terror in the old lady's ears.

She turned, and dropped to her knees on the floor.
"Mr.Kline, Mr.Kline," she sobbed out, "oh, for God's love, don't take him! Let him off, let him go! He's my boy--all I've got! You've got a mother, haven't you?
You know--" The tears were streaming down the sweet, old face again.

"Oh, won't you, for God's dear name, won't you let him go?
Won't--" "Stop!" the man cried huskily.