Neither possessed a hat; Sexton was in
his shirt sleeves, while West's coat clung to him in rags. Without
waiting to explain anything to the servant in charge, except to state
briefly that Sexton would be his guest for the night, the Captain hurried
into the waiting elevator, and accompanied by his companion, ascended to
his apartment above.
The reaction from the excitement of the evening left Sexton dull and
drowsy once he felt secure from any possible danger. His only desire was
to lie quiet, and forget. Stretched out on a comfortable lounge, he fell
asleep almost instantly, making no effort even to remove his clothes.
West was of a different temperament, his mind far too active to find
sleep possible. His only desire was to think, plan, decide upon some
future course of action. With mind busy, forgetful of the very presence
of his companion, he indulged in a bath, again dressed himself, and,
lighting a cigar, settled back into an easy chair to fight the whole out
alone with himself.
The adventures of the night had greatly changed his conception of this
affair in which he had become so strangely involved. The mystery
confronting him appeared more difficult of solution than ever. His first
vague theory of the case had already gone completely to smash. Question
after question rose before him which remained unanswered. He was more
thoroughly convinced than ever that Percival Coolidge had been murdered;
that the act had been committed either by Hobart himself, or under his
direction.
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