A priest was there, administering extreme unction, and saying such words of comfort as he could command, but at sight of Fibsy, Hanlon’s dull eyes brightened and he partially revived.
“Yes—him!” he cried out, with a sudden flicker of energy, “I must talk to him!”
The doctor fell back, and made way for the boy. “Let him talk, if he likes,” he said; “nothing matters now. Poor chap, he can’t live ten minutes.”
Awed, but very determined, Fibsy approached the bedside.
He looked at Hanlon—strangely still and white, yet his eyes burning with a desperate desire to communicate something.
“Come here,” he whispered, and Fibsy drew nearer to him.
“You know?” he said.
“Yes,” and Fibsy glanced around as if to be sure of his witnesses to this strange confession, “you killed Sanford Embury.”
“I did. I—I—oh, I can’t—talk. You talk—”
“This is his confession,” Fibsy turned to the priest and the doctor; “listen to it.” Then addressing himself again to Hanlon, he resumed: “You climbed up the side of the apartment house—on the cross street—not on Park Avenue—and you got in at Miss Ames’ window.”