With a great bound my heart threw off its tremors, and I grasped the revolver firmly:
“Who's there?”
“Open the door, sor; I've news for ye.”
“Who are you?”
“Come now, no nonsense; I'm an officer.”
I unlocked the door and stepped to one side. My bump of caution had developed amazingly in the few hours I had spent in San Francisco, and, in spite of his assurance, I thought best to avoid any chance of a rush from my unknown friends, and to put myself in a good position to use my revolver if necessary.
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!”