I inquired about Omega.
“Flat as a pancake,” said the little man. “Nothing doing.”
“What! Is it down?” I exclaimed with some astonishment.
“Lord bless you, no!” said Wallbridge, surprised in his turn. “Strong and steady at eighty, but we didn't sell a hundred shares to-day. Well, I'm in a rush. Good-by, if you don't want to buy or sell.” And he hurried off without waiting for a reply.
So I was now assured that Doddridge Knapp had not displaced me in the Omega deal. It was a recess to prepare another surprise for the Street, and I had time to attend to a neglected duty.
The undertaker's shop that held the morgue looked hardly less gloomy in the afternoon sun than in the light of breaking day in which I had left it when I parted from Detective Coogan. The office was decorated mournfully to accord with the grief of friends who ordered the coffins, or the feelings of the surviving relatives on settling the bills.
“I am Henry Wilton,” I explained to the man in charge. “There was a body left here by Detective Coogan to my order, I believe.”
“Oh, yes,” he said: “What do you want done with it?”
I explained that I wished to arrange to have it deposited in a vault for a time, as I might carry it East.
“That's easy done,” he said; and he explained the details. “Would you like to see the body?” he concluded. “We embalmed it on the strength of Coogan's order.”