The lights told him why Gregor had not greeted his entering hail.
The overturned reading lamp, the broken chair, the letters and papers strewn about the floor, the rifled bureau drawers--these things spoke plainly enough.

Gregor was a prisoner somewhere in this vast city; or he was dead.
Hawksley stood motionless for a space.

And he must remain here at least for a night and a day! He would not dare risk another hotel.

He could, of course, go to the splendid Rathbone place; but it would not be fair to invite tragedy across that threshold.
A ball of crushed paper at his feet attracted his attention.

He kicked it absently, followed and picked it up, his thought on other things.
He was aimlessly smoothing it out when an English word caught his eye.
English! He smoothed the crumpled sheet and read: If you find this it is the will of God.