“You seem to have escaped injury,” I parried.  He was fumbling for something in his pockets.

“Yes, I escaped,” he replied abstractedly.  “Remarkable thing, too.  I haven’t a doubt I would have broken my neck, but I landed on —­you’ll never guess what!  I landed head first on the very pillow which was under inspection at the time of the wreck.  You remember, don’t you?  Where did I put that package?”

He found it finally and opened it on a table, displaying with some theatricalism a rectangular piece of muslin and a similar patch of striped ticking.

“You recognize it?” he said.  “The stains, you see, and the hole made by the dirk.  I tried to bring away the entire pillow, but they thought I was stealing it, and made me give it up.”

Richey touched the pieces gingerly.  “By George,” he said, “and you carry that around in your pocket!  What if you should mistake it for your handkerchief?”

But Mr. Hotchkiss was not listening.  He stood bent somewhat forward, leaning over the table, and fixed me with his ferret-like eyes.

“Have you see the evening papers, Mr. Blakeley?” he inquired.

I glanced to where they lay unopened, and shook my head.

“Then I have a disagreeable task,” he said with evident relish.  “Of course, you had considered the matter of the man Harrington’s death closed, after the wreck.  I did myself.  As far as I was concerned, I meant to let it remain so.  There were no other survivors, at least none that I knew of, and in spite of circumstances, there were a number of points in your favor.”

“Thank you,” I put in with a sarcasm that was lost on him.

“I verified your identity, for instance, as soon as I recovered from the shock.  Also—­I found on inquiring of your tailor that you invariably wore dark clothing.”

McKnight came forward threateningly.  “Who are you, anyhow?” he demanded.  “And how is this any business of yours?” Mr. Hotchkiss was entirely unruffled.

“I have a minor position here,” he said, reaching for a visiting card.  “I am a very small patch on the seat of government, sir.”

McKnight muttered something about certain offensive designs against the said patch and retired grumbling to the window.  Our visitor was opening the paper with a tremendous expenditure of energy.

“Here it is.  Listen.”  He read rapidly aloud: 

“The Pittsburg police have sent to Baltimore two detectives who are looking up the survivors of the ill-fated Washington Flier.  It has transpired that Simon Harrington, the Wood Street merchant of that city, was not killed in the wreck, but was murdered in his berth the night preceding the accident.  Shortly before the collision, John Flanders, the conductor of the Flier, sent this telegram to the chief of police: 

  “’Body of Simon Harrington found stabbed in his berth, lower ten,
  Ontario, at six-thirty this morning. 
                                        John Flanders, Conductor.’