“Gee!” muttered Fibsy, under his breath, “going some!”
Genevieve Lane stared, round-eyed and excited, while Allen and the Wheelers breathlessly awaited developments.
“John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, the faithful old man! Listen, Stone. This is a signed confession of a man on his death-bed——”
“No longer that,” said Keefe, solemnly, “he died this afternoon.”
“And signed this just before he died?”
“Yes, Mr. Wheeler. In the hospital. The witnesses, as you see, are the nurses there.”
The paper merely stated that the undersigned was the slayer of Samuel Appleby. That the deed was committed in order to free Daniel Wheeler from wicked and unjust molestation and tyranny. The signature, though faintly scrawled, was perfectly legible and duly witnessed.
“He was an old servant of mine,” Wheeler said, thoughtfully, “and very devoted to us all. He always resented Appleby’s attitude toward me—for Mills was my butler when the trouble occurred, and knew all about it. He has been an invalid for a year, but has been very ill only recently.”
“Since the shooting, in fact,” said Keefe, significantly.
“It must have been a hard task for one so weak,” Wheeler said, “but the old fellow was a true friend to me all his life. Tell us more of the circumstances, Mr. Keefe.”