The coverlet was removed by a shaking hand.

"Murder!" exclaimed Cooley sympathetically, at sight of the other's
face. "A night off certainly does things to you! Better let me get you
some--"

"No. I'll be all right--after while."

"Then I'll go right ahead with our little troubles. I've decided to
leave for Paris by the one-thirty and haven't got a whole lot of time.
Cornish is here with me in the hall: he's got something to say that's
important for you to hear, and I'm goin' to bring him right in." He
waved his hand toward the door, which he had left open. "Come along,
Cornish. Poor ole Mellin'll play Du Barry with us and give us a morning
leevy while he listens in a bed with a palanquin to it. Now let's draw
up chairs and be sociable."

The journalist came in, smoking a long cigar, and took the chair the
youth pushed toward him; but, after a twinkling glance through his big
spectacles at the face on the pillow, he rose and threw the cigar out of
the window.

"Go ahead," said Cooley. "I want you to tell him just what you told me,
and when you're through I want to see if he doesn't think I'm Sherlock
Holmes' little brother."

"If Mr. Mellin does not feel too ill," said Cornish dryly; "I know how
painful such cases sometimes--"