I must have stood gaping in the street like a countryman at a fair as I revolved these questions in my mind without getting an answer to them, for I was roused by a man bumping into me roughly. I suspected that he had done it on purpose, but I begged his pardon and felt for my watch. I could find none of my personal property missing, but I noticed the fellow reeling back toward me, and doubled my fist with something of an intention to commit a breach of the peace if he repeated his trick. I thought better of it, and started by him briskly, when he spoke in a low tone: “You'd better go to your room, Mr. Wilton.” He said something more that I did not catch, and, reeling on, disappeared in the crowd before I could turn to mark or question him. I thought at first that he meant the room I had just left. Then it occurred to me that it was the room Henry had occupied--the room in which I had spent my first dreadful night in San Francisco, and had not revisited in the thirty hours since I had left it. The advice suited my inclination, and in a few minutes I was entering the dingy building and climbing the worn and creaking stairs. The place lost its air of mystery in the broad sunshine and penetrating daylight, and though its interior was as gloomy as ever, it lacked the haunting suggestions it had borrowed from darkness and the night. Slipped under the door I found two notes. One was from Detective Coogan, and read: “Inquest this afternoon. Don't want you. Have another story. Do you want the body?” The other was in a woman's hand, and the faint perfume of the first note I had received rose from the sheet. It read: “I do not understand your silence. The money is ready. What is the matter?” The officer's note was easy enough to answer. I found paper, and, assuring Detective Coogan of my gratitude at escaping the inquest, I asked him to turn the body over to the undertaker to be buried at my order. The other note was more perplexing. I could make nothing of it. It was evidently from my unknown employer, and her anxiety was plain to see. But I was no nearer to finding her than before, and if I knew how to reach her I knew not what to say. As I was contemplating this state of affairs with some dejection, and sealing my melancholy note to Detective Coogan, there was a quick step in the hall and a rap at the panel. It was a single person, so I had no hesitation in opening the door, but it gave me a passing satisfaction to have my hand on the revolver in my pocket as I turned the knob. It was a boy, who thrust a letter into my hand. “Yer name Wilton?” he inquired, still holding on to the envelope. “Yes.” “That's yourn, then.” And he was prepared to make a bolt. “Hold on,” I said. “Maybe there's an answer.” “No, there ain't. The bloke as gave it to me said there weren't.” “Well, here's something I want you to deliver,” said I, taking up my note to Detective Coogan. “Do you know where the City Hall is?”