“You can just forget your little tale about the row in the alley,” he continued. “There's nothing to show that it had anything to do with this man here. Maybe it didn't happen. Anyhow, just think it was a dream. This was a water-front row—tough saloon—killed and robbed by parties unknown. Maybe we'll have you before the coroner for the identification, but maybe it's better not.”
I nodded assent. My mind was too numbed to suggest another course.
The gray dawn was breaking through the chill fog, and people were stirring in the streets as Detective Coogan led the way out of the morgue. As we parted he gave me a curious look.
“I suppose you know your own business, Wilton,” he said, “but I suspect you'd be a sight safer if I'd clap you in jail.”
And with this consoling comment he was gone, and I was left in the dawn of my first morning in San Francisco, mind and body at the nadir of depression after the excitement and perils of the night.
CHAPTER V. DODDRIDGE KNAPP
It was past ten o'clock of the morning when the remembrance of the mysterious note I had received the preceding night came on me. I took the slip from my pocket, and read its contents once more:
“Don't make the change until I see you. The money will be ready in the morning. Be at the bank at 10:30.”