“Yes,” and Fibsy glanced around as if to be sure of his witnesses to this strange confession, “you killed Sanford Embury.” “I did. I--I--oh, I can’t--talk. You talk--” “This is his confession,” Fibsy turned to the priest and the doctor; “listen to it.” Then addressing himself again to Hanlon, he resumed: “You climbed up the side of the apartment house--on the cross street--not on Park Avenue--and you got in at Miss Ames’ window.” “Yes,” said Hanlon, his white lips barely moving, but his eyes showing acquiescence. “You went straight through those two rooms--softly, not awakening either of the ladies--and you killed Mr. Embury, and then--you returned through the bedrooms--” Again the eyes said yes. “And, passing through Miss Ames’ room, she stirred, and thinking she might be awake, you stopped and leaned over her to see. There you accidentally let fall--perhaps from your breast pocket--the little glass dropper you had used--and as you bent over the old lady, she grabbed at you, and felt your jersey sleeve--even bit at it--and tasted raspberry jam. That jam got on that sleeve as you climbed up past the Patterson’s window, where a jar of it was on the window-sill--” “Yes--that’s right,” Hanlon breathed, and on his face was a distinct look of admiration for the boy’s perception. “You wore a faintly-ticking wrist-watch--the same one you’re wearing now--and the odor of gasoline about you was from your motor-cycle. You, then, were the ‘vision’ Miss Ames has so often described, and you glided silently away from her bedside, and out at the window by which you entered. Gee! it was some stunt!” This tribute of praise was wrung from Fibsy by the sudden realization that what he had for some time surmised was really true! “I guess it was that jam that did for you,” he went on, “but, say, we ain’t got no time for talkin’.” Hanlon’s eyes were already glazing, his breath; came shorter and it was plain to be seen the end was very near. “Who hired you?” Fibsy flung the question at him with such force that it seemed to rouse a last effort of the ebbing life in the dying man and he answered, faintly but clearly: “Alvord Hendricks--ten thousand dollars--” and then Hanlon was gone. Reminding the priest and the doctor that they were witnesses to this dying confession, Fibsy rushed from the room and back to New York as fast as he could get there. He learned by telephone that Fleming Stone was at Mrs. Embury’s, and, pausing only to telephone for Shane to go at once to the same house, Fibsy jumped into a taxicab and hurried up there himself. “It’s all over,” he burst forth, as he dashed into the room where Stone sat, talking to Eunice. Mason Elliott was there, too--indeed, he was a frequent visitor--and Aunt Abby sat by with her knitting. “What is?” asked Stone, looking at the boy in concern. For Fibsy was greatly excited, his fingers worked nervously and his voice shook. “The whole thing, Mr. Stone! Hanlon’s dead--and he killed Mr. Embury.”