I could find none of my personal property missing,
but I noticed the fellow reeling back toward me, and doubled my fist
with something of an intention to commit a breach of the peace if he
repeated his trick. I thought better of it, and started by him briskly,
when he spoke in a low tone:
"You'd better go to your room, Mr. Wilton." He said something more that
I did not catch, and, reeling on, disappeared in the crowd before I
could turn to mark or question him.
I thought at first that he meant the room I had just left. Then it
occurred to me that it was the room Henry had occupied--the room in
which I had spent my first dreadful night in San Francisco, and had not
revisited in the thirty hours since I had left it.
The advice suited my inclination, and in a few minutes I was entering
the dingy building and climbing the worn and creaking stairs. The place
lost its air of mystery in the broad sunshine and penetrating daylight,
and though its interior was as gloomy as ever, it lacked the haunting
suggestions it had borrowed from darkness and the night.
Slipped under the door I found two notes. One was from Detective
Coogan, and read:
"Inquest this afternoon. Don't want you. Have another story. Do you
want the body?"
The other was in a woman's hand, and the faint perfume of the first
note I had received rose from the sheet. It read:
"I do not understand your silence. The money is ready. What is the
matter?"
The officer's note was easy enough to answer.
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