e by the department. I ought to have resigned years ago when I found
what had happened to my poor boy. I was Chief of Police in one of the
provinces of India at the time, but they wouldn't let me go. I came to
Scotland Yard and was promoted--no, I haven't played the game with the
department. And yet perhaps I have."

He did not speak for some time.

His breathing was growing fainter and fainter, and when Stafford asked
him, he said he was in no pain.

"I had to deceive you," he said after awhile. "I had to pretend that
Jack o' Judgment called on me too. That was to take suspicion from
your--Miss White," he smiled. "No, I haven't played the game. I stood
for the law, and yet--I broke that gang, which the law could not touch.
Yes, I broke them! I broke them!" he whispered. "If Boundary hadn't
known me I should have been gone before you came and resigned
to-morrow," he said, "but he must have discovered the boy's name. I
wonder he hadn't tried before. I smashed them, didn't I, Stafford? It
cost me thousands. I have committed almost every kind of crime--I
burgled the diamondsmiths', but you must give me your word you will
never tell. Phillopolis must suffer. They must all be punished."

Stafford had sent the police from the room, but the police-surgeon
would not be denied. He had the sense to see that nothing could be done
for the dying man, however, and that a change of position would probably
hasten the end. He, too, went and left them alone.

"Stafford, I have quite a lot of money," said the First Commissioner;
"it is yours. There's a will ... yours...."

Then he ceased to speak and Stafford thought that the end had come but
did not dare move in case he were mistaken. After five minutes the man
in his arms stirred slightly and his voice sounded strangely clear and
strong.

"Gregory, my boy, good old Gregory! Father's here, old man!"

His voice died away to a rumble and then to a murmur.

The tears were running down Stafford's face. He sensed all the tragedy,
all the loneliness of this man who had offered so cheerful a face to the
world. Then Sir Stanley struggled to draw himself to his feet, and
Stafford held him.

"Gently, sir, gently," he said, "you're only hurting yourself."

The dying man laughed. It was a little shrill chuckle of merriment and
Stafford's blood ran cold.

"Here I am, poor old Jack o' Judgment! Little old Jack o' Judgment! Give
me the lives you took and the hopes you've blasted. Give the