Blindfolded | Page 8

note, puzzling as it was, was hardly an addition to my perplexities.
It was evident that I had been plunged into the center of intrigue, plot
and counterplot. I was supposed to have possession of somebody's boy.
A powerful and active enemy threatened me with death. An equally
active friend was working to preserve my safety. People of wealth were
concerned. I had dimly seen a fragment of the struggling forces, and it
was plain that only a very rich person could afford the luxury of hiring
the bravos and guards who threatened and protected me.
How wide were the ramifications of the mystery? Whose was the boy,
and what was wanted of him? Had he been stolen from home and
parents? Or was he threatened with mortal danger and sent into hiding
to keep him from death?
The fate of Henry showed the power of those who were pursuing me.
Armed as he was with the knowledge of his danger, knowing, as I did
not, what he had to guard and from what he had to guard it, he had yet
fallen a victim.
I could not doubt that he was the man assaulted and stabbed in the alley
below. But the fact that no trace of him or of a tragedy was to be found
gave me hope that he was still alive. Yet, at best, he was wounded and

in the hands of his enemies, a prisoner to the men who had sought his
life. It must be, however, that he was not yet recognized. The transfer
of the chase to me was proof that the scoundrels had been misled by the
resemblance between us, and by the letters found in the coat. They
were convinced that he was Giles Dudley, and that I was Henry Wilton.
As long as there was hope that he was alive I would devote myself to
searching for him and to helping him to recover his liberty.
As I was hoping, speculating, planning thus, I was startled to hear a
step on the stair.
The sound was not one that need be thought out of place in such a
house and neighborhood even though the hour was past four in the
mortising. But it struck a chill through me, and I listened with growing
apprehension as it mounted step by step.
The dread silence of the house that had cast its shadow of fear upon me
now seemed to become vocal with protest against this intrusion, and to
send warning through the halls. At last the step halted before my door
and a loud knock startled the echoes.
With a great bound my heart threw off its tremors, and I grasped the
revolver firmly:
"Who's there?"
"Open the door, sor; I've news for ye."
"Who are you?"
"Come now, no nonsense; I'm an officer."
I unlocked the door and stepped to one side. My bump of caution had
developed amazingly in the few hours I had spent in San Francisco, and,
in spite of his assurance, I thought best to avoid any chance of a rush
from my unknown friends, and to put myself in a good position to use
my revolver if necessary.

The man stepped in and showed his star. He was the policeman I had
met when I had run shouting into the street.
"I suspicion we've found your friend," he said gravely. "You're wanted
at the morgue."
"Dead!" I gasped.
"Dead as Saint Patrick--rest his sowl!"
CHAPTER IV
A CHANGE OF NAME
"Here's your way, sor," said the policeman, turning into the old City
Hall, as it was even then known, and leading me to one of the inner
rooms of the labyrinth of offices.
The odors of the prison were heavy upon the building. The foul air
from the foul court-rooms and offices still hung about the entrance, and
the fog-laden breeze of the early morning hours was powerless to
freshen it.
The policeman opened an office door, saluted, and motioned me to
enter.
"Detective Coogan," he said, "here's your man."
Detective Coogan, from behind his desk, nodded with the careless
dignity of official position.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Wilton," he said affably.
If I betrayed surprise at being called by Henry's name, Detective
Coogan did not notice it. But I hastened to disclaim the dangerous
distinction.
"I am not Wilton," I declared. "My name is Dudley--Giles Dudley."

At this announcement Detective Coogan turned to the policeman. "Just
step into Morris' room, Corson, and tell him I'm going up to the
morgue."
"Now," he continued, as the policeman closed the door behind him,
"this won't do, Wilton. We've had to overlook a good deal, of course,
but you needn't think you can play us for suckers all the time."
"But I tell you I'm not--" I began, when