“We'll take it out any time,” said the undertaker, with a decorous reflection of my grief upon his face. “Would you like to accompany the remains?” I decided that I would. “Well, there's nothing doing now. We can start as soon as we have sealed the casket.” “As soon as you can. There's nothing to wait for.” The ride to the cemetery took me through a part of San Francisco that I had not yet seen. Flying battalions of fog advanced swiftly upon us as we faced the West, and the day grew pale and ghostlike. The gray masses were pouring fast over the hills toward which we struggled, and the ranks thickened as we drew near the burial-place. I paid little attention to the streets through which we passed. My mind was on the friend whose name I had taken, whose work I was to do. I was back with him in our boyhood days, and lived again for the fleeting minutes the life we had lived in common; and the resolve grew stronger on me that his fate should be avenged. And yet a face came between me and the dead--a proud face, with varying moods reflected upon it, now gay, now scornful, now lighted with intelligence and mirth, now blazing with anger. But it was powerless to shake my resolve. Not even Luella Knapp should stand between me and vengeance. “There's the place,” said the undertaker, pointing to the vault. “I'll have it opened directly.” The scene was in accord with my feelings. The gray day gave a somber air to the trees and flowers that grew about. The white tombstones and occasional monuments to be seen were sad reminders of mortality. Below me stretched the city, half-concealed by the magic drapery of the fog that streamed through it, turning it from a place of wood and stone into a fantastic illusion, heavy with gloom and sorrow. It was soon over. The body of Henry Wilton was committed to the vault with the single mourner looking on, and we drove rapidly back in the failing light. I had given my address at the undertaker's shop, and the hack stopped in front of my house of mystery before I knew where we were. Darkness had come upon the place, and the street-lamps were alight and the gas was blazing in the store-windows along the thoroughfares. As I stepped out of the carriage and gazed about me, I recognized the gloomy doorway and its neighborhood that had greeted me on my first night in San Francisco. As I was paying the fare, a stout figure stepped up to me. “Ah, Mr. Wilton, it's you again.” I turned in surprise. It was the policeman I had met on my first night in San Francisco. “Oh, Corson, how are you?” I said heartily, recognizing him at last. I felt a sense of relief in the sight of him. The place was not one to quiet my nerves after the errand from which I had just come. “All's well, sor, but I've a bit of paper for ye.” And after some hunting he brought it forth. “I was asked to hand this to ye.” I took it in wonder. Was there something more from Detective Coogan? I tore open the envelope and read on its inclosure: