"That," he said, desperately.

The sergeant, following the direction of the terror-stricken black eyes,
stooped by the table. Then, with a sharp exclamation, he dragged away
the cloth. Burleigh, with a sharp cry of horror, reeled back against the
wall.

"All right, sir," said the sergeant, catching him; "all right. Turn your
head away."

He pushed him into a chair, and crossing the room, poured out a glass of
whiskey and brought it to him. The glass rattled against his teeth, but
he drank it greedily, and then groaned faintly. The sergeant waited
patiently. There was no hurry.

"Who is it, sir?" he asked at length.

"My friend--Fletcher," said Burleigh, with an effort. "We lived
together." He turned to the prisoner.

"You damned villain!"

"He was dead when I come in the room, gentlemen," said the prisoner,
strenuously. "He was on the floor dead, and when I see 'im, I tried to
get out. S' 'elp me he was. You heard me call out, sir. I shouldn't
ha' called out if I'd killed him."

"All right," said the sergeant, gruffly; "you'd better hold your tongue,
you know."