I found paper, and,
assuring Detective Coogan of my gratitude at escaping the inquest, I
asked him to turn the body over to the undertaker to be buried at my
order.
The other note was more perplexing. I could make nothing of it. It was
evidently from my unknown employer, and her anxiety was plain to see.
But I was no nearer to finding her than before, and if I knew how to
reach her I knew not what to say. As I was contemplating this state of
affairs with some dejection, and sealing my melancholy note to
Detective Coogan, there was a quick step in the hall and a rap at the
panel. It was a single person, so I had no hesitation in opening the
door, but it gave me a passing satisfaction to have my hand on the
revolver in my pocket as I turned the knob.
It was a boy, who thrust a letter into my hand.
"Yer name Wilton?" he inquired, still holding on to the envelope.
"Yes."
"That's yourn, then." And he was prepared to make a bolt.
"Hold on," I said. "Maybe there's an answer."
"No, there ain't. The bloke as gave it to me said there weren't."
"Well, here's something I want you to deliver," said I, taking up my
note to Detective Coogan. "Do you know where the City Hall is?"
"Does I know--what are yer givin' us?" said the boy with infinite scorn
in his voice.
"A quarter," I returned with a laugh, tossing him the coin. "Wait a
minute."
"Yer ain't bad stuff," said the boy with a grin. I tore open the
envelope and read on the sheet that came from it:
"Sell everything you bought--never mind the price.
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