"Murbridge found," said Jim to himself as he stood holding the telegram in his hand. "At last, thank goodness, at last!"

Alice, however, said nothing. She had more of her dead father's forgiving spirit in her, and she was aware that he would have been the last to have desired vengeance on his assailant.

"What do you mean to do?" she asked.

"Catch the 8.40 train up to Town," said Jim, "and see Murbridge as soon as possible. The telegram says 'Come at once.' That is sufficient evidence that there is no time to be lost. Perhaps he has been wounded in a desperate struggle with the police. In fact, there are a thousand possibilities."

He gave the necessary instructions for dinner to be hurried forward, his bag to be packed, and the carriage to be ready immediately afterwards to take him to the station.

"You will not mind being left alone for one evening, will you, Alice?" he said to his sister, half apologetically. "Terence will be in the house and will keep a careful eye upon you. If you think you will be lonely I will take you up to Town with me, drop you at the hotel, and then I will go on to Upper Bellington Street."

Alice, however, would not hear of this arrangement. She declared that she would be quite content to remain where she was.

"Besides," she said, "if any news were to come from Helen, I should be here to receive it. It would not be wise for both of us to be away at this juncture."

Jim thereupon went out and sent word to Terence to come to him in his study.

"I am called up to Town to-night, Terence," he said, "and I am going to leave Miss Alice in your charge. I know she could not be in a better."

"You may be very sure of that, sir," Terence replied; "I wouldn't stand by and see anything happen to Miss Alice, and I think she knows it."

"I am sure she does," Jim returned, and then went on to explain the reason for the journey he was about to undertake.

An hour and a-half later he was seated in a railway carriage and being whirled along towards London at something like fifty miles an hour. If ever a young man in this world was furnished with material for thought, James Standerton that evening was that one. There was his errand to London in the first place to be considered, the singular behaviour of the Black Dwarf a few nights before for another, and the declaration that Helen had made to him that afternoon for a third. In the light of this last catastrophe the finding of the man whom he felt sure was his father's murderer sank into comparative insignificance.

What if the madman should wreak his vengeance upon her? What if in a sudden fit of fury he should drive her from his house? If the latter were to come to pass, however, he felt certain that the place she would fly to would be the Manor House, and in that case Alice would take her in and Terence would see that she was safe from the old man's fury.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when he reached Paddington. Hailing a cab, he bade the man drive him first to his hotel, where he engaged his usual room. When he had consulted a directory, he made his way into the street again. His cabman, whom he had told to wait, professed to be familiar with Upper Bellington Street, but later confessed his entire ignorance of its locality. Jim set him right, and then, taking his place in the cab, bade him drive him thither with all speed. Once more they set off, down Piccadilly, through Leicester Square, and so by way of Long Acre into Holborn. Then the route became somewhat more complicated. Through street after street they passed until Jim lost all idea of the direction in which they were proceeding. Some of the streets were broad and stately, others squalid and dejected, some wood paved, others cobble-stones, in which the rain that had fallen an hour previous stood in filthy puddles.

How long they were driving, Jim had no sort of idea, nor could he have told you in what portion of the town he was then in. At last however they entered a street which appeared to have no ending. It was illumined by flaring lamps from coster barrows, drawn up beside the pavement, while the night was made hideous by the raucous cries of the vendors of winkles baked potatoes and roasted chestnuts.

"This is Upper Bellington Street, sir," said the cabman, through the shutter. "At what number shall I pull up?"

"Thirteen," Jim replied; "but you will never be able to find it in this crowd. Put me down anywhere here, and I'll look for it myself."

The cabman did as he was directed, and presently Jim found himself making his way along the greasy pavement—which even at that late hour was crowded with pedestrians—in search of the number in question. It was as miserable an evening as ever he could remember. A thin drizzle was falling; the sights and sounds around him were sordid and depressing in the extreme; while the very errand that had brought him to that neighbourhood was of a kind calculated to lower the spirits of the average man to below the mental zero.

After an examination of the numbers of the various houses and shops in the vicinity, he came to the conclusion that Thirteen must be situated at the further end of the street. This proved to be the case. When he reached it, he knocked upon the grimy door, which was immediately opened to him by a police officer.

"What is your name?" asked that official.

"James Standerton," Jim replied. "I received a telegram from Detective-sergeant Robins this evening asking me to come up."

"That's all right, sir," the man answered. "Come in; we have been expecting you this hour or more."

"But how is it your prisoner is here, and not at the police station?"

"I doubt if he'll ever trouble any police station again," returned the officer. "He's just about done for. In fact, I shouldn't be surprised if he wasn't dead by now."

"What is the matter with him?"

"Pneumonia, sir, the doctor says. He says he can't last out the night."

At that moment Robins himself appeared at the head of the dirty stairs that descended to the hall, and invited him to ascend. Jim accordingly did so.

"Good evening, Mr. Standerton," he said, "I regret having to inform you that we have caught our bird too late. We discovered him at midday, and he was then at the point of death. He was too ill to be moved, and as he had no one to look after him, we got a doctor and a nurse in at once. But I fear it is a hopeless case."

"Will it be possible for me to see him, do you think?"

"Oh yes, sir; he's been calling for you ever since we found him, so I took the liberty of telegraphing to you to come up."

"I am glad you did," said Jim. "There are some questions I must put to him."

"In that case, please step this way, sir, and I'll speak to the doctor. You shall not be kept waiting any longer than I can help."

He led Jim along the landing, then opened a door and disappeared into a room at the further end. While he was absent Jim looked about him and took stock of his position. The small gas-jet that lit up the well of the staircase, served to show the dirty walls in all their dreariness. The sound of voices reached him from above and below, while the cries of the hawkers in the street came faintly in and added to the general squalor. Then as he stood there he recalled that first meeting with Murbridge beside the Darling River. In his mind's eye he saw the evening sun illumining the gums on the opposite bank, the soft breeze ruffling the surface of the river, an old pelican fishing for his evening meal in the back-water, and lastly, Richard Murbridge stretched out beside his newly-lighted fire. This would be their third meeting; and in what a place, and under what terribly changed circumstances! He was indulging in this reverie when the door opened once more, and a small, grey-haired man emerged.

"Good evening, my dear sir," he said, "I understand that you're Mr. Standerton, the son of the man the poor wretch inside is suspected of having murdered. However, they have captured him too late."

"You mean, I suppose, that he will not live?" said Jim, interrogatively.

"If he sees the light of morning I shall be very much surprised," said the doctor; "in point of fact he is sinking fast. You wish to see him, do you not?"

"I do," said Jim. "There is some mystery connected with him that I am very desirous of clearing up."

"I see," said the medico, "and in that case I presume that you would wish to see him alone?"

"If you can permit it," Jim replied.

"I think it might be managed," answered the other. "But if you will stay here for a moment I will let you know."

He returned to the room, and when he stood before Jim once more, invited him to follow him. He did so, to find himself in a small apartment, some ten feet long by eight feet wide. It was uncarpeted, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, a box on which stood an enamelled basin, and a bed which was covered with frowsy blankets. On this bed lay a man whom, in spite the change that had come over him, Jim recognised at once as being Richard Murbridge. A nurse was standing beside him, and Robins was at the foot of the bed.

"Do not make the interview any longer than you can help," whispered the doctor, and then beckoned to the detective and the nurse to leave the room with him. They did so, and the door closed behind them. Then Jim went forward and seated himself upon the chair by the bedside of the dying man. The latter looked up at him with a scowl.

"So they sent for you after all?" he said in a voice that was little above a whisper. "They even took that trouble?"

"I received the message just before dinner, and came away immediately afterwards."

"Left your luxurious mansion to visit Upper Bellington Street? How self-denying of you! Good Lord, to think that it should be my luck to die in such a hole as this! I suppose you know that I am dying?"

"I have been informed that your recovery is unlikely," Jim replied. "That fact made me doubly anxious to speak to you."

There was a little pause, during which Murbridge watched him intently.

"You mean about the murder, I suppose?" he whispered.

"Yes!" Jim answered. "God forgive me for feeling revengeful at such a moment, but you took from me and my sister the kindest and best father that man ever had."

"You still think that it was I who committed the murder, then?"

"I am certain of it," Jim answered. "You were at the house that night; you cherished a deadly hatred against my father; you vowed that you would be even with him, happen what might, and you ran away from Childerbridge immediately afterwards. Surely those facts are black enough to convict any man?"

"They would have gone some way with a Jury, I have no doubt," the other replied. "But, as a matter of fact, I did not commit the murder. Bitterly as I hated your father, I am not responsible for his death."

Jim looked at him incredulously.

"Ah, I can see you do not believe me. Now, listen, James Standerton, and pay attention to what I say, for I shan't be able to say it again. I've been a pretty tough sort of customer all my life. There have not been many villainies I haven't committed, and still fewer that I wouldn't have committed if they tended to my advantage. The record I shall carry aloft with me will not bear much looking into. But on the word of a dying man, may"—(here he swore an awful oath which I feel would be better not set down)—"if I am not absolutely guiltless of your father's death. Will you believe me now?"

But still Jim looked incredulous.

"Ah, I can see that you still doubt me. How can I convince you? Think for a moment, what have I to gain or lose by saying such a thing? I shall be gone hence in a few hours, perhaps minutes. Even if I were the murderer, the police could not take me now. With old Bony behind me I can laugh at them and at you."

"But why did you run away if you were innocent?"

"Because I saw what a hole I had got myself into. You remember that I went up to the house and had an interview with your father? He turned me out, and in the hearing of yourself and the servant I vowed to be even with him. That vow I certainly should have kept, had not somebody else that night stepped in and took the case out of my hands. When I left the house, I went for a long walk. I knew my own temper, and also that I dared not trust myself with human beings just then. Good heavens, man! You don't know how desperate I was. I had followed your father to England, and the voyage had taken nearly all my money. What little was left I spent in liquor, and then went down to Childerbridge to screw more from your father. He refused point blank to help me except on certain conditions, which I would not comply with. Knowing his stubbornness of old, I cleared out of Childerbridge by the first train, vowing that I would be even with him by some means. Then in an evening paper I saw that he had been murdered. In a flash I realised my position, and saw that if I was not very careful I should find myself in Queer Street. Then came your reward, and from that moment I hid myself like a 'possum in a gum log. I didn't care very much about my miserable neck, but—but—well, you see, strange though it may seem, I was a gentleman once."

Jim did not know what to say. If this man's tale were true, and it bore the impression of truth, then they had been on a false scent from the first.

"I wonder what your mother would have said had she been alive to see it all," said Murbridge, after a pause. "Good Lord, to think that Jane Standerton's brother should end his days in a hole like this."

"What?" cried Jim, scarcely believing that he had heard aright. "Whose brother did you say?"

"Why, your own mother's to be sure," returned Murbridge. "Do you mean to say that your father never told you after all?"

"Can such a thing be possible?" Jim continued, in an awed voice.

"Yes; I am Jane Standerton's brother sure enough. If you look in that old bag under the bed, you will find evidence enough to convince you of that fact. My real name is Richard McCalmont, though you wouldn't think it to look at me, would you? That was how I got my hold upon your father, don't you see? I was convicted of forgery at the age of twenty-one"—(the man spoke as if he were proud of it)—"and did my three years. For a while after that I went straight, but at twenty-six there was another little mistake, with the details of which I will not trouble you, but which was sufficient, nevertheless, to again cause me to spend some years in durance vile. At the age of thirty-two they tried to convict me of an Insurance Fraud, combined with a suspicion of murder. They would have done so but for certain technicalities that were brought forward by my Counsel, who, by the way, was employed by your father. You see I am perfectly candid with you."

"And you are my mother's brother?" said Jim slowly, as if he were still trying to believe it.

"And your father's brother-in-law, too. And your uncle. Don't forget that, James," said the other. "Lord! How your father hated me! On certain occasions I made it my custom to call upon him in a friendly way. At the end of my last term of exile, I found that my sister was dead, and that you and Alice were growing up. It was my desire to play the part of the kindly uncle. But your father made himself objectionable, and vowed that if ever I dared to betray my relationship to you he would cut off supplies. As there was never a time in my life in which I did not stand in need of money, I was perforce compelled to deprive you of a life's history that would certainly have proved interesting, if not instructive, to you. However, I now have the satisfaction of knowing that I shall not die without having accomplished that task."

Here he was interrupted by a violent fit of coughing, which left him speechless for upwards of a minute. As for Jim, he was thinking of the mental agony his father must have suffered, year after year, with this despicable creature, the brother of the woman he loved so fondly, continually holding this threat over his children's heads.

"God help you for a miserable man," he muttered at last. "Why didn't my poor father tell me this before? He might have known that this would not have made the least difference."

"He was too proud," replied the other, when he recovered his speech. "Well, it doesn't matter much now, and in a little while it will matter still less. The police and I have been on the most friendly terms all our lives, and it gives one a homely sort of feeling to know that even my last moments will be watched over by their tender care."

He tried to laugh at his own hideous joke, but the attempt was a failure.

"For my mother's sake, is there anything I can do for you?" Jim enquired, drawing a little closer to the bed.

The other only shook his head. The effort he had made to talk had proved too much for him, and had materially hastened the end.

Seeing that his condition was growing desperate, Jim rose and went in search of the doctor. He found him in an apartment close at hand.

"I believe he is sinking fast," said Jim. "I think you had better go to him."

The doctor accordingly returned to the sick-room, leaving Jim alone with Robins.

"Well, sir," asked the latter, "did he confess?"

"We have been deceived," said Jim. "The man is as innocent of the crime as I am. I am convinced of that!"

"God bless my soul, you don't mean to say so," said the astonished detective, and asked the same questions Jim had put to the dying man. Jim answered them as the other had done.

"Well, this is the most extraordinary case I have ever had to do with," said Robins. "If Murbridge had wanted to place a halter round his neck he could not have gone to work in a better fashion. If he is not the man, then where are we to look for the real murderer?"

"Goodness only knows," replied Jim. "The case is now shrouded in even greater mystery than before."

Half an hour went by, then an hour, and still they waited. At two o'clock the doctor rejoined them.

"It is all over," he said solemnly. "He is dead."