“Yes, sir. And I found out from Rachel that——”
“Rachel!” Fibsy fairly shot out the word, but a look from Stone made him say no more.
“Yes, Rachel, the maid,” went on Keefe, “and I found that the man she saw on the veranda was of the same general size and appearance as Mills. Well, I somehow felt that it was Mills—and so I went to see him.”
“At the hospital?” asked Wheeler.
“Yes; some days ago. He was then very weak, and the nurses didn’t want me to arouse him to any excitement. But I knew it was my duty——”
“Of course,” put in Stone, and Keefe gave him a patronizing look.
“So, against the wishes of the nurses and doctors, I had an interview alone with Mills, and I found he was the criminal.”
“He confessed?” asked Stone.
“Yes; and though he refused to sign a written confession, he agreed he would confess in the presence of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stone. But—that was only this morning—and the doctor assured me the man couldn’t live the day out. So I persuaded the dying man to sign this confession, which I drew up and read to him in the presence of the nurses. He signed—they witnessed—and there it is.”
With evident modesty, Keefe pointed to the paper still in Wheeler’s hands, and said no more.