This was a local sheet, containing a
notice of the death of Judge Henley, which I took time to read. The
letters were in such scraps I could not even decipher the address.
One fact, however, was revealed--some man had been sleeping up here
lately, and it was not Coombs, but a much smaller Individual. This
knowledge made me even more cautious, as I tiptoed down the hall, now
narrowed by the back stairway. The first door opened into a bath-room,
the tub half full of dirty water, a mussed towel on the floor. The
last door, leading to a room apparently extending clear across the rear
of the house, was tightly closed. I set my lamp down well out of
sight, and gripped my revolver, before attempting to manipulate the
knob. It opened noiselessly; moonlight streamed through one window,
where the curtain was not closely drawn, but the gloom was too dense to
reveal much of the shrouded interior. I could dimly perceive a table,
and some chairs, one overturned. There was no movement, however; no
sign of present occupancy. Convinced as to this, I slipped back for my
lamp, shading the flame so the light was thrown forward into the room.
A single glance revealed everything. The table, a common deal affair,
contained two bottles, one half filled, and three dirty glasses,
together with a pack of disreputable-looking cards, some of these
scattered about the floor.
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