He returned to the room, and when he stood before Jim once more, invited him to follow him. He did so, to find himself in a small apartment, some ten feet long by eight feet wide. It was uncarpeted, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, a box on which stood an enamelled basin, and a bed which was covered with frowsy blankets. On this bed lay a man whom, in spite the change that had come over him, Jim recognised at once as being Richard Murbridge. A nurse was standing beside him, and Robins was at the foot of the bed.
"Do not make the interview any longer than you can help," whispered the doctor, and then beckoned to the detective and the nurse to leave the room with him. They did so, and the door closed behind them. Then Jim went forward and seated himself upon the chair by the bedside of the dying man. The latter looked up at him with a scowl.
"So they sent for you after all?" he said in a voice that was little above a whisper. "They even took that trouble?"
"I received the message just before dinner, and came away immediately afterwards."
"Left your luxurious mansion to visit Upper Bellington Street? How self-denying of you! Good Lord, to think that it should be my luck to die in such a hole as this! I suppose you know that I am dying?"
"I have been informed that your recovery is unlikely," Jim replied. "That fact made me doubly anxious to speak to you."
There was a little pause, during which Murbridge watched him intently.
"You mean about the murder, I suppose?" he whispered.
"Yes!" Jim answered. "God forgive me for feeling revengeful at such a moment, but you took from me and my sister the kindest and best father that man ever had."
"You still think that it was I who committed the murder, then?"