The man stepped in and showed his star. He was the policeman I had met
when I had run shouting into the street.
"I suspicion we've found your friend," he said gravely. "You're wanted
at the morgue."
"Dead!" I gasped.
"Dead as Saint Patrick--rest his sowl!"
CHAPTER IV
A CHANGE OF NAME
"Here's your way, sor," said the policeman, turning into the old City
Hall, as it was even then known, and leading me to one of the inner
rooms of the labyrinth of offices.
The odors of the prison were heavy upon the building. The foul air from
the foul court-rooms and offices still hung about the entrance, and the
fog-laden breeze of the early morning hours was powerless to freshen
it.
The policeman opened an office door, saluted, and motioned me to enter.
"Detective Coogan," he said, "here's your man."
Detective Coogan, from behind his desk, nodded with the careless
dignity of official position.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Wilton," he said affably.
If I betrayed surprise at being called by Henry's name, Detective
Coogan did not notice it. But I hastened to disclaim the dangerous
distinction.
"I am not Wilton," I declared. "My name is Dudley--Giles Dudley."
At this announcement Detective Coogan turned to the policeman. "Just
step into Morris' room, Corson, and tell him I'm going up to the
morgue."
"Now," he continued, as the policeman closed the door behind him, "this
won't do, Wilton. We've had to overlook a good deal, of course, but you
needn't think you can play us for suckers all the time.
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