"Wot fur?" he asked.
"Murder of Golden in Burns Alley," was the sententious reply.
"It's a lie! It's a lie!" screamed Jaggers, starting up with sudden energy. "It's a lie! He was my friend!"
"Well, well! Never mind. It don't matter now, of course, but if you did not murder him, how did you get possession of that draft and the other papers? Sanders says he got the draft through you."
The doctor was standing in front of Jaggers, and Morgan motioned him to take down what was said.
Wearied, confused, and believing himself dying, Jaggers replied:
"I did give Sanders a draft, but the old man never had no draft! That devil, Hall, had that, but me and 'The Knifer' got the best of him. We got into his room one night and got his papers. They wos sewed up in a chest-pertecter an' I kep' them just for spite! They wos no good to me—only the draft! And that's gone too! Poor Sanders! He's in for that!"
"Doctor!" called Morgan, sharply, but with a significant look. "Give this man something to brace him up! I must get this thing in writing!"
The doctor hastily prepared something for Jaggers, which was scarcely in his stomach before Morgan asked:
"What you say may possibly save Sanders' neck from the rope and put it around Hall's, but you must sign a statement of it!"