e tried," he answered. "You needn't look startled. It
isn't suicide I am thinking of. Are you a Doctor?" He turned his fierce
dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

"Yes; I am," I answered.

"Then put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his
manacled wrists towards his chest.

I did so; and became at once conscious of an extraordinary throbbing and
commotion which was going on inside. The walls of his chest seemed to
thrill and quiver as a frail building would do inside when some powerful
engine was at work. In the silence of the room I could hear a dull
humming and buzzing noise which proceeded from the same source.

"Why," I cried, "you have an aortic aneurism!"

"That's what they call it," he said, placidly. "I went to a Doctor last
week about it, and he told me that it is bound to burst before many days
passed. It has been getting worse for years. I got it from over-exposure
and under-feeding among the Salt Lake Mountains. I've done my work now,
and I don't care how soon I go, but I should like to leave some account
of the business behind me. I don't want to be remembered as a common
cut-throat."

The Inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the
advisability of allowing him to tell his story.

"Do you consider, Doctor, that there is immediate danger?" the former
asked, [24]

"Most certainly there is," I answered.

"In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to
take his statement," said the Inspector. "You are at liberty, sir, to
give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down."

"I'll sit down, with your leave," the prisoner said, suiting the action
to the word. "This aneurism of mine makes me easily tired, and the
tussle we had half an hour ago has not mended matters. I'm on the brink
of the grave, and I am not likely to lie to you. Every word I say is the
absolute truth, and how you use it is a matter of no consequence to me."

With these words, Jefferson Hope leaned back in his chair and began
the following remarkable statement. He spoke in a calm and methodical
manner, as though the events which he narrated were commonplace enough.
I can vouch for the accuracy of the subjoined account, for I have had
access to Lestrade's note-book, in which the prisoner's words were taken
down exactly as they were uttered.

"It don't much matter to you why I hated these men," he said; "it's
enough that they were guilty of the d