When Nick came to his senses, he was lying on a cot in the Brooklyn police headquarters. Around him lay the bodies of several men that had been killed in the riot. Several others who had been slightly wounded were sitting around in chairs, talking about the riot.
At the hospitals were a dozen other officers who had been severely injured.
A citizen had seen the rioting, and had sent word to police headquarters, and the timely arrival of the reserves from several station houses had finally checked the outlawry of the crowd.
Nick remembered having tried to catch Wright, or Weeden, by the throat, and all after that was a blank.
The doctor, after examining Nick, told him that the only injury that he had sustained was a small scalp wound and a general shaking up, but advised that Nick take a rest for a day or two.
Nick laughed, and said that he had business on hand that would prevent his taking a rest of more than an hour.
Nick lay on the cot for a few minutes, thinking of the course that he should pursue.
If by any mischance the man that he had tried to arrest was really Wright, what was his object in attacking the detective, and why had he jeered at Nick as he had?
Was there such a man as Wright?
Nick thought it over, and came to the startling conclusion that the man Wright, Weeden, and the old beggar were one and the same.