lost its air of mystery in the broad sunshine and penetrating daylight,
and though its interior was as gloomy as ever, it lacked the haunting
suggestions it had borrowed from darkness and the night.

Slipped under the door I found two notes. One was from Detective
Coogan, and read:

"Inquest this afternoon. Don't want you. Have another story. Do you
want the body?"

The other was in a woman's hand, and the faint perfume of the first
note I had received rose from the sheet. It read:

"I do not understand your silence. The money is ready. What is the
matter?"

The officer's note was easy enough to answer. I found paper, and,
assuring Detective Coogan of my gratitude at escaping the inquest, I
asked him to turn the body over to the undertaker to be buried at my
order.

The other note was more perplexing. I could make nothing of it. It was
evidently from my unknown employer, and her anxiety was plain to see.
But I was no nearer to finding her than before, and if I knew how to
reach her I knew not what to say. As I was contemplating this state of
affairs with some dejection, and sealing my melancholy note to
Detective Coogan, there was a quick step in the hall and a rap at the
panel. It was a single person, so I had no hesitation in opening the
door, but it gave me a passing satisfaction to have my hand on the
revolver in my pocket as I turned the knob.