He might have been a civil engineer, or some scientist, or yet an officer on half pay.
"Otto Kling, 445 Fourth Avenue," he repeated to himself, to make sure of the name and location.

Then, with the quick movement of a man suddenly imbued with new purpose, he wheeled, leaped the overflowed gutter, and walked rapidly until he reached 13th Street.

Half-way down the block he entered the shabby doorway of an old-fashioned house, mounted to the third floor, stepped into a small, poorly furnished bedroom lighted by a single gas-jet, and closed the door behind him.

Lifting his wet hat from his well-rounded head, with its smoothly brushed, closely trimmed hair--a head that would have looked well in bronze--he raised the edge of the bedclothes and from underneath the narrow cot dragged out a flat, sole-leather trunk of English make.

This he unlocked with a key fastened to a steel chain, took out the tray, felt about among the contents, and drew out a morocco-covered dressing-case, of good size and of evident value, bearing on its top a silver plate inscribed with a monogram and crest.