retreat. The window upon examination appeared impracticable. There was
a sheer drop of twenty feet, without a projection of any kind below it.
The ledge was hardly an inch wide. The iron shutters by which it might
be closed did not swing within ten feet of any other window. The one
chance of getting in by this line was to drop a rope ladder from the
roof. The door opening into Room 16 was not heavy, and the lock was a
cheap affair. A good kick would send the whole thing into splinters. As
it swung into Number 16 and not into my room it could not be braced
with a barricade. Plainly it was not a good place to spend the night
should Doddridge Knapp care to engineer another case of mysterious
disappearance.

The depression of spirits that progressed with my survey of the room
deepened into gloom as I flung myself into the arm-chair before the
desk, and tried to plan some way out of the tangle in which I was
involved. How was I, single-handed, to contend against the power of the
richest man in the city, and bring home to him the murder of Henry
Wilton? I could look for no assistance from the police. The words of
Detective Coogan were enough to show that only the most convincing
proof of guilt, backed by fear of public sentiment, could bring the
department to raise a finger against him. And how could I hope to rouse
that public sentiment? What would my word count against that of the
King of the Street?

Where was the motive for the crime? Until that was made clear I could
not hope to piece together the scraps of evidence into a solid
structure of proof. And what motive could there be that would reconcile
the Doddridge Knapp who sought the life of Henry Wilton, with the
Doddridge Knapp of this morning, who was ready to engage him in his
confidential business? And had I the right to accept any part in his