Stafford had sent the police from the room, but the police-surgeon would not be denied. He had the sense to see that nothing could be done for the dying man, however, and that a change of position would probably hasten the end. He, too, went and left them alone.
"Stafford, I have quite a lot of money," said the First Commissioner; "it is yours. There's a will ... yours...."
Then he ceased to speak and Stafford thought that the end had come but did not dare move in case he were mistaken. After five minutes the man in his arms stirred slightly and his voice sounded strangely clear and strong.
"Gregory, my boy, good old Gregory! Father's here, old man!"
His voice died away to a rumble and then to a murmur.
The tears were running down Stafford's face. He sensed all the tragedy, all the loneliness of this man who had offered so cheerful a face to the world. Then Sir Stanley struggled to draw himself to his feet, and Stafford held him.
"Gently, sir, gently," he said, "you're only hurting yourself."
The dying man laughed. It was a little shrill chuckle of merriment and Stafford's blood ran cold.
"Here I am, poor old Jack o' Judgment! Little old Jack o' Judgment! Give me the lives you took and the hopes you've blasted. Give them to Jack ... Jack o' Judgment!"
They were his last words.