It was reasonable to suppose that a man who is well dressed would possess a watch and chain, and have money in his pockets, and possibly rings on his fingers.

But there was nothing valuable to be found; in fact there was nothing at all to be found that could lead to identification--no letters, no papers, nothing.

It was plain that whoever had struck the dead man down had subsequently stripped him of whatever was on him.

The only clue to possible identity lay in the fact that a soft cap of grey cloth appeared to have been newly purchased at a fashionable shop in the West End.
Spargo went home; there seemed to be nothing to stop for.

He ate his food and he went to bed, only to do poor things in the way of sleeping.
He was not the sort to be impressed by horrors, but he recognized at last that the morning's event had destroyed his chance of rest; he accordingly rose, took a cold bath, drank a cup of coffee, and went out.