I summoned my resolution and looked.
Disfigured and ghastly as it was, I recognized it. It was the face of Henry Wilton.
The next I knew I was sitting on a bench, and the detective was holding a bottle to my lips.
“There, take another swallow,” he said, not unkindly. “I didn't know you weren't used to it.”
“Oh,” I gasped, “I'm all right now.” And I was able to look steadily at the gruesome surroundings and the dreadful burden on the slab.
“Is this the man?” asked the detective.
“Yes.”
“His name?”
“Dudley—James Dudley.” I was not quite willing to transfer the whole of my identity to the dead, and changed the Giles to James.
“Was he a relative?”