The Inspector turned anxiously to Colin.
"What's the matter with him?" he demanded.
"His spine's practically broken," said Colin. "He can't live more than a few minutes."
Marsden bent over the dying man, on whose white face the moonlight streamed down with a peculiarly ghastly effect.
"Listen to me, Cooper," he said. "We know all about you. We've got your record from Montreal. Fenton's dead, and I don't imagine that our friend Medwin is a particular pal of yours. Come, man, you may just as well tell us the truth."
Cooper, who seemed to be breathing with extreme difficulty, moistened his lips.
"It's no good, mister," he faltered. "You can't put a rope round Medwin's neck—not this journey. He hadn't no more to do with croaking the old guy than you or the doctor."
Marsden nodded. "I know that," he said. "You broke into the house the second time by yourself in order to try and rob the safe. Neither Fenton nor Medwin knew anything about it—until afterward."
Cooper looked up at him again, the same half-jeering smile on his drawn face.
"You ought to be with Pinkerton," he gasped. "You're just wasted here."