or documents were found upon
the body, and it was not until a week after his funeral that a crumpled
piece of paper was discovered in his game bag. This proved to be one of
our letters to him and we were at once put in possession of the facts.
At the same time we were informed that the body had been exhumed and
positively identified by an old friend of our client. Mr. Paulding was
away from Town on his vacation when the news came and in his absence the
responsibility for proper action devolved upon me.

The letter announcing Mr. Bateman's death arrived in the morning mail,
but I was engaged in Court all day and it was nearly seven o'clock in
the evening before I returned to the office. Letters and papers had
accumulated on my desk during my absence, but I was too tired and hungry
to attack the work they suggested, so dismissing the clerks for the
night I sought out the nearest restaurant.

All thought of Bateman's affairs had been crowded out by the events of
the day, and it was not until I had finished my after-dinner cigar that
they were recalled to me by seeing Mr. Bateman's obituary printed in an
evening paper.

It was the usual "boneyard" article which had doubtless been set up in
the newspaper office years before. Any way, after reading three quarters
of a column I learned nothing about the man I did not already know, and
what I knew could have been condensed into a dozen lines. It set me
thinking, however, about our queer old client. Perhaps his Will
contained some directions for the disposition of his body which should
govern my immediate instructions to the people in the Adirondacks. His
end would have been lonely enough anywhere, but up there in the silent
mountains, away from the city's bustle and battle which he loved, death
must have seemed fearful to that lonesome old man. Late as it was I
determined to return to the office and look at Mr. Bateman's Will.

I always carried a key to the front door of our office building, for no
one slept on the premises and sometimes it was important to gain
admission after the closing hour.

The streets were absolutely deserted as I left the restaurant and my
footsteps echoed upon the flagstones.

Surely down-town New York is the most dismal spot in the world at
night--a veritable city of the dead. The silent, empty streets have an
atmosphere of utter gloom--the buildings dark and forbidding stand in
gruesome solemnity or huddle together in hideous attitudes of fear-