“He’s dead, is he not?”
“Yes; fished out of the East River the other morning. And they found a new wound upon him—a knife thrust through the heart. It really is the most remarkable series of events that ever came under my notice. It would seem as though there was a conspiracy of some sort on foot; and the people behind it do not value human life very highly.”
“I should say not,” answered Kenyon, dryly. “But how are the other patients?”
“Number two, as I call the one hailing from West Point, is still in rather a bad way, but is recovering. The one from Saginaw left the hospital this afternoon.”
“But he is still in New York?” eagerly.
“Oh, yes; he can be found at the Hotel Suisse on Third Avenue.”
They thanked the surgeon and departed.
“A cabman should know of the Hotel Suisse,” suggested Webster.
So one was summoned, and it proved that he had the necessary information. A rapid drive landed them in front of a small, clean-looking hotel in the neighborhood of the Cooper Union. A stout German with a gleaming bald head was at the desk.
“Oh, dot Kenyon?” replied he, in answer to their inquiries. “Ja, I know him! He have der room dhirty-dhree got. He is a young kind of a fellar und has a pandage aroundt his head. Nicht wahr?”