Blindfolded | Page 8

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 he interrupted me.
"You can't make that go here," he said contemptuously. "And I'll tell you what, Wilton, I shall have to take you into custody if you don't come down to straight business. We don't want to chip in on the old man's play, of course, especially as we don't know what his game is." Detective Coogan appeared to regret this admission that he was not omniscient, and went on hastily: "You know as well as we do that we don't want any fight with him. But I'll tell you right now that if you force a fight, we'll make it so warm for him that he'll have to throw you overboard to lighten ship."
Here was a fine prospect conveyed by Detective Coogan's picturesque confusion of metaphors. If I persisted in claiming my own name and person I was to be clapped into jail, and charged with Heaven-knows- what crimes. If I took my friend's name, I was to invite the career of adventure of which I had just had a taste. And while this was flashing through my mind, I wondered idly who the "old man" could be. The note I had