"But you forget the 'old man,'" I returned. The name of that potent
Unknown seemed to be my only weapon in the contest with Detective
Coogan, and I thought this a time to try its force.

"Not much, I don't!" said Coogan, visibly disturbed. "But if it comes
to a choice, we'll have to risk a battle with him."

"Well, maybe we're wasting time over a trifle," said I, voicing my
hope. "Perhaps your dead man belongs somewhere else."

"Come along to the morgue, then," said he.

"Where was he found?" I asked as we walked out of the City Hall.

"He was picked up at about three o'clock in the back room of the
Hurricane Deck--the water-front saloon, you know--near the foot of
Folsom Street."

Detective Coogan asked a number of questions as we walked, and in a few
minutes we came to the undertaker's shop that served as the city
morgue. At the best of times it could not be a place of cheer. In the
hour before daybreak, with the chill air of the morning almost
suppressing the yellow gaslights, the errand on which I had come made
it the abode of dread. Yet I hoped--hoped in such an agony of fear that
I became half-insensible to my surroundings.

"Here it is," said Coogan, opening a door.

The low room was dark and chill and musty, but its details started
forth from the obscurity as he turned up the lights.