“At the Cosmopolitan Hotel, across the street. He is a bachelor, and entirely alone in the world, all of his relatives having died. He is an Englishman by birth, and a courtly old gentleman. He has a moderate income to live on, and he is enjoying himself in his declining years. All of the merchants of old New York knew him, and when he conducted the Red Dragon Inn it was famous as a chop house. “Mr. Wright’s acquaintance is extensive,” added Lancaster. “If you see him, he may know something about the murdered man--if the man spoke the truth when he said that he used to stop here twenty years ago. “I shall surely call upon Mr. Wright, and ask him to take a look at the remains.” At this moment Carter felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned around and beheld the captain of the precinct, who had just arrived. “I am glad to see you, Mr. Carter,” the officer exclaimed. “You can help us in this, and as usual I suppose you have gleaned considerable information?” “I have found very little,” the detective replied. “Will you help us?” “Certainly.” “My mind is relieved. I hope you’ll take full charge of the case.” “What about headquarters?” “I will take care of that. While you have charge, the people at headquarters will not interfere.” “Have you sent out an alarm?” “Yes.” “Let us go up to the attic room. Request your men to keep every one downstairs.” “I will do that.” The police captain issued his instructions to his men, and then he and Carter proceeded upstairs to the attic room in which the body of the victim lay. The captain stood out in the hall on the threshold, while the detective entered the room. Carter stepped up to the side of the bed and scrutinized the face of the victim closely in silence. “His throat was cut while he slept,” Nick remarked, looking toward the captain. “Do you see any sign of the weapon with which the crime was committed?” the police official asked. “Not yet.” Carter turned around and commenced to inspect the room. For nearly fifteen minutes he was engaged in the work, without uttering a word. The police captain watched him with close attention. The detective went over the ground with the avidity of a sleuthhound scenting for a trail. Every nook and corner of the apartment was inspected, until the detective stood by the window, the sash of which was raised. He looked at the sill and then uttered an exclamation. “What is it?” the police captain asked, entering the room and stepping up to Carter’s side. “See,” the detective replied, pointing with his forefinger to stains upon the window sill and the lower part of the sash. “Here are imprints of bloody fingers. The murderer, after he committed the crime, came over to this window and raised the sash. And here are bloody tracks on the outside. Look; there are imprints of shoes in the snow across the roof--they lead from here to the edge. The murderer escaped this way. Wait here.” “What are you going to do?” “You’ll see.”