The Canadian was lying on his face, his arms and legs flung out at a grotesque angle. To any one with medical knowledge there was something fatally suggestive about the mere attitude of the limbs, and it was no little surprise to Colin that, as he stooped down to make a closer examination, a low groan reached his ears. With great care he turned over the helpless man and raised him in his arms. "Well, we've got one of 'em alive, anyhow," observed the Inspector, who had followed him across the grass. As though conscious of the remark, Cooper opened his eyes, and for a moment lay there with his head on Colin's shoulder, gazing up vaguely into the two faces above him. Then something that was almost a grin flickered across his face. "I guess we've met before, mister," he jerked out faintly. "Say, how the hell did your friends get you out of that cellar?" "Never mind now," interrupted the detective curtly. "You've got something else to think about at present. I am Inspector Marsden of Scotland Yard, and I arrest you for the murder of Professor Carter." There was a glint of mockery in Cooper's face as his eyes travelled slowly in the direction of the speaker. "Good for you, Sherlock Holmes," he gasped. "I reckon the British police ain't quite such duds after all." He paused, as though the effort of speaking had been almost too much for him. "It's tough luck you won't get the credit of hanging me," he added, in an even feebler voice. "Still, if you will be so damn careless with that gun o' yours----" He stopped, and with a little choking cough spat out a mouthful of blood. 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."