Detective Coogan's words seemed to come from a great distance as he
said: "Here, you see, he was stabbed. The knife went to the heart. Here
he was hit with something heavy and blunt; but it had enough of an edge
to cut the scalp and lay the cheek open. The skull is broken. See here--"

I summoned my resolution and looked.

Disfigured and ghastly as it was, I recognized it. It was the face of
Henry Wilton.

The next I knew I was sitting on a bench, and the detective was holding
a bottle to my lips.

"There, take another swallow," he said, not unkindly. "I didn't know
you weren't used to it."

"Oh," I gasped, "I'm all right now." And I was able to look steadily at
the gruesome surroundings and the dreadful burden on the slab.

"Is this the man?" asked the detective.

"Yes."

"His name?"

"Dudley--James Dudley." I was not quite willing to transfer the whole
of my identity to the dead, and changed the Giles to James.

"Was he a relative?"