The next I knew I was sitting on a bench, and the detective was holding a bottle to my lips. “There, take another swallow,” he said, not unkindly. “I didn't know you weren't used to it.” “Oh,” I gasped, “I'm all right now.” And I was able to look steadily at the gruesome surroundings and the dreadful burden on the slab. “Is this the man?” asked the detective. “Yes.” “His name?” “Dudley--James Dudley.” I was not quite willing to transfer the whole of my identity to the dead, and changed the Giles to James. “Was he a relative?” I shook my head, though I could not have said why I denied it. Then, in answer to the detective's question, I told the story of the scuffle in the alley, and of the events that followed. “Did you see any of the men? To recognize them, I mean?” I described the leader as well as I was able--the man with the face of the wolf that I had seen in the lantern-flash. Detective Coogan lost his listless air, and looked at me in astonishment. “I don't see your game, Wilton,” he said. “I'm giving you the straight facts,” I said sullenly, a little disturbed by his manner and tone. “Well, in that case, I'd expect you to keep the straight facts to yourself, my boy.” It was my turn to be astonished. “Well, that's my lookout,” I said with assumed carelessness. “I don't see through you,” said the detective with some irritation. “If you're playing with me to stop this inquiry by dragging in--well, we needn't use names--you'll find yourself in the hottest water you ever struck.” “You can do as you please,” I said coolly. The detective ripped out an oath. “If I knew you were lying, Wilton, I'd clap you in jail this minute.” “Well, if you want to take the risks--” I said smiling. He looked at me for a full minute. “Candidly, I don't, and you know it,” he said. “But this is a stunner on me. What's your game, anyhow?” I wished I knew. “So accomplished a detective should not be at a loss to answer so simple a question.” “Well, there's only one course open, as I see,” he said with a groan. “We've got to have a story ready for the papers and the coroner's jury.” This was a new suggestion for me and I was alarmed. “You can just forget your little tale about the row in the alley,” he continued. “There's nothing to show that it had anything to do with this man here. Maybe it didn't happen. Anyhow, just think it was a dream. This was a water-front row--tough saloon--killed and robbed by parties unknown. Maybe we'll have you before the coroner for the identification, but maybe it's better not.” I nodded assent. My mind was too numbed to suggest another course. The gray dawn was breaking through the chill fog, and people were stirring in the streets as Detective Coogan led the way out of the morgue. As we parted he gave me a curious look. “I suppose you know your own business, Wilton,” he said, “but I suspect you'd be a sight safer if I'd clap you in jail.”