“I verified your identity, for instance, as soon as I recovered from the shock. Also—I found on inquiring of your tailor that you invariably wore dark clothing.” McKnight came forward threateningly. “Who are you, anyhow?” he demanded. “And how is this any business of yours?” Mr. Hotchkiss was entirely unruffled. “I have a minor position here,” he said, reaching for a visiting card. “I am a very small patch on the seat of government, sir.” McKnight muttered something about certain offensive designs against the said patch and retired grumbling to the window. Our visitor was opening the paper with a tremendous expenditure of energy. “Here it is. Listen.” He read rapidly aloud: “The Pittsburg police have sent to Baltimore two detectives who are looking up the survivors of the ill-fated Washington Flier. It has transpired that Simon Harrington, the Wood Street merchant of that city, was not killed in the wreck, but was murdered in his berth the night preceding the accident. Shortly before the collision, John Flanders, the conductor of the Flier, sent this telegram to the chief of police: “‘Body of Simon Harrington found stabbed in his berth, lower ten, Ontario, at six-thirty this morning. JOHN FLANDERS, Conductor.’ “It is hoped that the survivors of the wrecked car Ontario will be found, to tell what they know of the discovery of the crime. “Mr. John Gilmore, head of the steel company for which Mr. Harrington was purchasing agent, has signified his intention of sifting the matter to the bottom.” “So you see,” Hotchkiss concluded, “there’s trouble brewing. You and I are the only survivors of that unfortunate car.” I did not contradict him, but I knew of two others, at least: Alison West, and the woman we had left beside the road that morning, babbling incoherently, her black hair tumbling over her white face. “Unless we can find the man who occupied lower seven,” I suggested. “I have already tried and failed. To find him would not clear you, of course, unless we could establish some connection between him and the murdered man. It is the only thing I see, however. I have learned this much,” Hotchkiss concluded: “Lower seven was reserved from Cresson.” Cresson! Where Alison West and Mrs. Curtis had taken the train! McKnight came forward and suddenly held out his hand. “Mr. Hotchkiss,” he said, “I—I’m sorry if I have been offensive. I thought when you came in, that, like the Irishman and the government, you were ‘forninst’ us. If you will put those cheerful relics out of sight somewhere, I should be glad to have you dine with me at the Incubator.” (His name for his bachelor apartment.) “Compared with Johnson, you are the great original protoplasm.”