I suddenly recollected those two men who had passed by as we had talked,
and how that the features of one had seemed strangely familiar.
Therefore I took a cab to the police-station down at Whitehall, and made
inquiry of the inspector on duty in the big bare office with its flaring
gas-jets in wire globes. He heard me to the end, then turning back the
book of "occurrences" before him, glanced through the ruled entries.
"I should think this is the gentleman, sir," he said. And he read to me
the entry as follows:
"P.C. 462A reports that at 2.07 a.m., while on duty outside the National
Gallery, he heard a revolver shot, followed by a man's cry. He ran to
the corner of Suffolk Street, where he found a gentleman lying upon the
pavement suffering from a serious shot-wound in the chest and quite
unconscious. He obtained the assistance of P.C.'s 218A and 343A, and the
gentleman, who was not identified, was taken to the Charing Cross
Hospital, where the house-surgeon expressed a doubt whether he could
live.
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