“From whom did you purchase it?”
“A man named Peter Wright, who had been the proprietor for nearly a quarter of a century.”
“Is Mr. Wright alive?”
“He is.”
“Where does he reside?”
“At the Cosmopolitan Hotel, across the street. He is a bachelor, and entirely alone in the world, all of his relatives having died. He is an Englishman by birth, and a courtly old gentleman. He has a moderate income to live on, and he is enjoying himself in his declining years. All of the merchants of old New York knew him, and when he conducted the Red Dragon Inn it was famous as a chop house.
“Mr. Wright’s acquaintance is extensive,” added Lancaster. “If you see him, he may know something about the murdered man—if the man spoke the truth when he said that he used to stop here twenty years ago.
“I shall surely call upon Mr. Wright, and ask him to take a look at the remains.”
At this moment Carter felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned around and beheld the captain of the precinct, who had just arrived.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Carter,” the officer exclaimed. “You can help us in this, and as usual I suppose you have gleaned considerable information?”