"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."