The depression of spirits that progressed with my survey of the room
deepened into gloom as I flung myself into the arm-chair before the
desk, and tried to plan some way out of the tangle in which I was
involved. How was I, single-handed, to contend against the power of the
richest man in the city, and bring home to him the murder of Henry
Wilton? I could look for no assistance from the police. The words of
Detective Coogan were enough to show that only the most convincing
proof of guilt, backed by fear of public sentiment, could bring the
department to raise a finger against him. And how could I hope to rouse
that public sentiment? What would my word count against that of the
King of the Street?
Where was the motive for the crime? Until that was made clear I could
not hope to piece together the scraps of evidence into a solid
structure of proof. And what motive could there be that would reconcile
the Doddridge Knapp who sought the life of Henry Wilton, with the
Doddridge Knapp of this morning, who was ready to engage him in his
confidential business? And had I the right to accept any part in his
business? It had the flavor of treachery about it; yet it seemed the
only possible chance to come upon the secret springs of his acts, to
come in touch with the tools and accomplices in his crime. And the
unknown mission, that had brought Henry to his death? How was I to play
his part in that? And even if I could take his place, how was I to
serve the mysterious employer and Doddridge Knapp at the same time,
when Doddridge Knapp was ready to murder me to gain the Unknown's
secret.
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