When he negotiated a particularly difficult place, the crowd forebore to cheer, instinctively feeling it might disturb him.

He went on—­higher and higher—­now pausing to look down and smile at the sea of upturned faces below—­and, in a moment of bravado, even daring to pause, and hanging on by one hand and one foot, “scissor out” his other limbs and wave a tiny flag which he carried.

On he went, and on, at last reaching the very top.  Over the coping he climbed, and gaily waved his flag as he bowed to the applauding crowds below.

Then, for Hanlon was a daring soul, the return journey was begun.

Even more fascinating than the ascent was this hazardous task.

Fibsy watched him, noted every step, every motion, and was fairly beside himself with the excitement of the moment.

And, then, when half a dozen stories from the ground—­when success was almost within his grasp—­something happened.  Nobody knew what—­a misstep—­a miscalculation of distance—­a slipping stone—­whatever the cause, Hanlon fell.  Fell from the sixth story to the ground.

Those nearest the catastrophe stepped back—­others pushed forward—­and an ambulance, ready for such a possible occasion, hurried the wounded man to the hospital.

For Hanlon was not killed, but so crushed and broken that his life was but a matter of hours—­perhaps moments.

“Let me in—­I must see him!” Fibsy fought the doormen, the attendants, the nurses.

“I tell you I must!  In the name of the law, let me in!”

And then a more coherent insistence brought him permission, and he was immediately admitted to Hanlon’s presence.

A priest was there, administering extreme unction, and saying such words of comfort as he could command, but at sight of Fibsy, Hanlon’s dull eyes brightened and he partially revived.

“Yes—­him!” he cried out, with a sudden flicker of energy, “I must talk to him!”

The doctor fell back, and made way for the boy.  “Let him talk, if he likes,” he said; “nothing matters now.  Poor chap, he can’t live ten minutes.”

Awed, but very determined, Fibsy approached the bedside.

He looked at Hanlon—­strangely still and white, yet his eyes burning with a desperate desire to communicate something.

“Come here,” he whispered, and Fibsy drew nearer to him.

“You know?” he said.

“Yes,” and Fibsy glanced around as if f 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.