McAllister and His Double

by Edward P. Hendrick

  Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  McALLISTER AND HIS DOUBLE ARTHUR TRAIN]

  McAllister whispered sharply in his ear. (Page 68.)]

  McALLISTERAND HIS DOUBLE

  BY ARTHUR TRAIN

  ILLUSTRATED

  CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONSNEW YORK:::::::::::::::::1905

  COPYRIGHT, 1905, BYCHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

  Published, September, 1905

  TROW DIRECTORYPRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANYNEW YORK

  CONTENTS

  PAGEMCALLISTER'S CHRISTMAS 1THE BARON DE VILLE 53THE ESCAPE OF WILKINS 77THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL'S TRUNK 113THE GOLDEN TOUCH 141MCALLISTER'S DATA OF ETHICS 177MCALLISTER'S MARRIAGE 205THE JAILBIRD 233IN THE COURSE OF JUSTICE 255THE MAXIMILIAN DIAMOND 283EXTRADITION 311

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  McAllister whispered sharply in his ear _Frontispiece_

  FACING PAGE"What do you know about it? I tell you it's all rot!" 6

  "Throw up your hands!" 10

  "Do you know who you've caught?" 16

  "Merry Christmas, Fatty!" 24

  "I think you've got Raffles whipped to a standstill." 64

  "You think you're a sure winner. But I _know_ you. I knowyour _face_." 88

  "Wot do you want?" drawled the fat man, blinking at the lantern 102

  "Who in thunder are _you_?" 110

  Deftly tied the two ends of string around it 130

  "Hands up, or I'll shoot!" yelled the detective, as a fat,wild-eyed individual sprung from within 136

  He hesitated a moment as if giving the matter the considerationit deserved 324

  McAllister's Christmas

  I

  McAllister was out of sorts. All the afternoon he had sat in the clubwindow and watched the Christmas shoppers hurrying by with theirbundles. He thanked God he had no brats to buy moo-cows and bow-wowsfor. The very nonchalance of these victims of a fate that had given themfamilies irritated him. McAllister was a clubman, pure and simple; thatis to say though neither simple nor pure, he was a clubman and nothingmore. He had occupied the same seat by the same window during thegreater part of his earthly existence, and they were the same seat andwindow that his father had filled before him. His select and exclusivecircle called him "Chubby," and his five-and-forty years of terrapin andcocktails had given him a graceful rotundity of person that did notbelie the name. They had also endowed him with a cheerful thoughsomewhat florid countenance, and a permanent sense of well-being.

  As the afternoon wore on and the pedestrians became fewer, McAllistersank deeper and deeper into gloom. The club was deserted. Everybody hadgone out of town to spend Christmas with someone else, and theWinthrops, on whom he had counted for a certainty, had failed for somereason to invite him. He had waited confidently until the last minute,and now he was stranded, alone.

  It began to snow softly, gently. McAllister threw himself disconsolatelyinto a leathern armchair by the smouldering logs on the six-foot hearth.A servant in livery entered, pulled down the shades, and after touchinga button that threw a subdued radiance over the room, withdrewnoiselessly.

  "Come back here, Peter!" growled McAllister. "Anybody in the club?"

  "Only Mr. Tomlinson, sir."

  McAllister swore under his breath.

  "Yes, sir," replied Peter.

  McAllister shot a quick glance at him.

  "I didn't say anything. You may go."

  This time Peter got almost to the door.

  "Er--Peter; ask Mr. Tomlinson if he will dine with me."

  Peter presently returned with the intelligence that Mr. Tomlinson wouldbe delighted.

  "Of course," grumbled McAllister to himself. "No one ever knew Tomlinsonto refuse anything."

  He ordered dinner, and then took up an evening paper in which an efforthad been made to conceal the absence of news by summarizing theachievements of the past year. Staring head-lines invited his notice to

  =A YEAR OF PROGRESS.=

  =What the Tenement-House Commission Has Accomplished.=

  =FURTHER NEED OF PRISON REFORM.=

  He threw down the paper in disgust. This reform made him sick. Tenementsand prisons! Why were the papers always talking about tenements andprisons? They were a great deal better than the people who lived in themdeserved. He recalled Wilkins, his valet, who had stolen his black pearlscarf-pin. It increased his ill-humor. Hang Wilkins! The thief wasprobably out by this time and wearing the pin. It had been a matter ofjest among his friends that the servant had looked not unlike hismaster. McAllister winced at the thought.

  "Dinner is served," said Peter.

  An hour and a half later, Tomlinson and McAllister, having finished asumptuous repast, stared stupidly at each other across their liqueurs.They were stuffed and bored. Tomlinson was a thin man who kneweverything positively. McAllister hated him. He always felt when in hiscompany like the woman who invariably answered her husband's remarks by"'Tain't so! It's just the opposite!" Tomlinson was trying to makeconversation by repeating assertively what he had read in the eveningpress.

  "Now, our prisons," he announced authoritatively. "Why, it isoutrageous! The people are crowded in like cattle; the food isloathsome. It's a disgrace to a civilized city!"

  This was the last straw to McAllister.

  "Look here," he snapped back at Tomlinson, who shrank behind his cigarat the vehemence of the attack, "what do you know about it? I tell youit's all rot! It's all politics! Our tenements are all right, and so areour prisons. The law of supply and demand regulates the tenements; andwho pays for the prisons, I'd like to know? We pay for 'em, and thescamps that rob us live in 'em for nothing. The Tombs is a great dealbetter than most second-class hotels on the Continent. I _know_! I had avalet once that-- Oh, what's the use! I'd be glad to spend Christmas inno worse place. Reform! Stuff! Don't tell me!" He sank back purple inthe face.

  "What do you know about it? I tell you it's all rot!"]

  "Oh, of course--if you know!" Tomlinson hesitated politely, rememberingthat McAllister had signed for the dinner.

  "Well, I _do_ know," affirmed McAllister.

  II

  "No-el! No-el! No-el! No-el!" rang out the bells, as McAllister left theclub at twelve o'clock and started down the avenue.

  "No-el! No-el!" hummed McAllister. "Pretty old air!" he thought. He hadalmost forgotten that it was Christmas morning. As he felt his waygingerly over the stone sidewalks, the bells were ringing all aroundhim. First one chime, then another. "No-el! No-el! No-el! No-el!" Theyceased, leaving the melody floating on the moist night air.

  The snow began to fall irregularly in patchy flakes, then graduallyturned to rain. First a soft, wet mist, that dimmed the electric lightsand shrouded the hotel windows; then a fine sprinkle; at last the chillrain of a winter's night. McAllister turned up his coat-collar andlooked about for a cab. It was too late. He hurried hastily down theavenue. Soon a welcome sight met his eye-
-a coupe, a night-hawk,crawling slowly down the block, on the lookout, no doubt, for belatedChristmas revellers. Without superfluous introduction McAllister made adive for the door, shouted his address, and jumped inside. The driver,but half-roused from his lethargy, muttered something unintelligible andpulled in his horse. At the same moment the dark figure of a man swiftlyemerged from a side street, ran up to the cab, opened the door, threw ina heavy object upon McAllister's feet, and followed it with himself.

  "Let her go!" he cried, slamming the door. The driver, withouthesitation, lashed his horse and started at a furious gallop down theslippery avenue.

  Then for the first time the stranger perceived McAllister. There was amuttered curse, a gleam of steel as they flashed by a street-lamp, andthe clubman felt the cold muzzle of a revolver against his cheek.

  "Speak, and I'll blow yer head off!"

  The cab swayed and swerved in all directions, and the driver retainedhis seat with difficulty. McAllister, clinging to the sides of therocking vehicle, expected every moment to be either shot or thrown outand killed.

  "Don't move!" hissed his companion.

  McAllister tried with difficulty not to move.

  Suddenly there came a shrill whistle, followed by the clatter of hoofs.A figure on horseback dashed by. The driver, endeavoring to rein in hisnow maddened beast, lost his balance and pitched overboard. There was aconfusion of shouts, a blue flash, a loud report. The horse sprang intothe air and fell, kicking, upon the pavement; the cab crashed upon itsside; amid a shower of glass the door parted company with its hinges,and the stranger, placing his heel on McAllister's stomach, leapedquickly into the darkness. A moment later, having recovered a part ofhis scattered senses, our hero, thrusting himself through the shatteredframework of the cab, staggered to his feet. He remembered dimlyafterward having expected to create a mild sensation among thespectators by announcing, in response to their polite inquiries as tohis safety, that he was "quite uninjured." Instead, however, the glareof a policeman's lantern was turned upon his dishevelled countenance,and a hoarse voice shouted:

  "Throw up your hands!"

  "Throw up your hands!"]

  He threw them up. Like the Phoenix rising from its ashes, McAllisteremerged from the debris which surrounded him. On either side of the cabhe beheld a policeman with a levelled revolver. A mounted officer stoodsentinel beside the smoking body of the horse.

  "No tricks, now!" continued the voice. "Pull your feet out of that mess,and keep your hands up! Slip on the nippers, Tom. Better go through himhere. They always manage to lose somethin' goin' over."

  McAllister wondered where "Over" was. Before he could protest, he wasunceremoniously seated upon the body of the dead horse and the officerswere going rapidly through his clothes.

  "Thought so!" muttered Tom, as he drew out of McAllister's coat-pocket arevolver and a jimmy. "Just as well to unballast 'em at the start." Ablack calico mask and a small bottle filled with a colorless liquidfollowed.

  Tom drew a quick breath.

  "So you're one of those, are ye?" he added with an oath.

  The victim of this astounding adventure had not yet spoken. Now hestammered:

  "Look here! Who do you think I am? This is all a mistake."

  Tom did not deign to reply.

  The officer on horseback had dismounted and was poking among the piecesof cab.

  "What's this here?" he inquired, as he dragged a large bundle coveredwith black cloth into the circle of light, and, untying a bit of cord,poured its contents upon the pavement. A glittering silver servicerolled out upon the asphalt and reflected the glow of the lanterns.

  "Gee! look at all the swag!" cried Tom. "I wonder where he melts it up."

  Faintly at first, then nearer and nearer, came the harsh clanging of the"hurry up" wagon.

  "Get up!" directed Tom, punctuating his order with mild kicks. Then, asthe driver reined up the panting horses alongside, the officer grabbedhis prisoner by the coat-collar and yanked him to his feet.

  "Jump in," he said roughly.

  "My God!" exclaimed our friend half-aloud, "where are they going to takeme?"

  "To the Tombs--for Christmas!" answered Tom.

  III

  McAllister, hatless, stumbled into the wagon and was thrust forciblyinto a corner. Above the steady drum of the rain upon the waterproofcover he could hear the officers outside packing up the silverware anddiscussing their capture.

  The hot japanned tin of the wagon-lamps smelled abominably. The heavybreathing of the horses, together with the sickening odor of rubber anddamp straw, told him that this was no dream, but a frightful reality.

  "He's a bad un!" came Tom's voice in tones of caution. "You can see hislay is the gentleman racket. Wait till he gets to the precinct and hearthe steer he'll give the sergeant. He's a wise un, and don't you forgetit!"

  As the wagon started, the officers swung on to the steps behind.McAllister, crouching in the straw by the driver's seat, tried tounderstand what had happened. Apart from a few bruises and a cut on hisforehead he had escaped injury, and, while considerably shaken up, wasphysically little the worse for his adventure. His head, however, achedbadly. What he suffered from most was a new and strange sensation ofhelplessness. It was as if he had stepped into another world, in whichhe--McAllister, of the Colophon Club--did not belong and the language ofwhich he did not speak. The ignominy of his position crushed him. Neveragain, should this disgrace become known, could he bring himself toenter the portals of the club. To be the hero of an exciting adventurewith a burglar in a runaway cab was one matter, but to be arrested,haled to prison and locked up, was quite another. Once before the properauthorities, it would be simple enough to explain who and what he was,but the question that troubled him was how to avoid publicity. Heremembered the bills in his pocket. Fortunately they were still there.In spite of the handcuffs, he wormed them out and surreptitiously heldup the roll. The guard started visibly, and, turning away his head,allowed McAllister to thrust the wad into his hand.

  "Can't I square this, somehow?" whispered our hero, hesitatingly.

  The guard broke into a loud guffaw. "Get on to him!" he laughed. "He'sat it already, Tom. Look at the dough he took out of his pants! You'reright about his lay." He turned fiercely upon McAllister, who, dazed bythis sudden turn of affairs, once more retreated into his corner.

  The three officers counted the money ostentatiously by the light of alantern.

  "Eighty plunks! Thought we was cheap, didn't he?" remarked the guardscornfully. "No; eighty plunks won't square this job for you! It'll takenearer eight years. No more monkey business, now! You've struck thewrong combine!"

  McAllister saw that he had been guilty of a terrible _faux pas_. Anyexplanation to these officers was clearly impossible. With an officialit would be different. He had once met a police commissioner at dinner,and remembered that he had seemed really almost like a gentleman.

  The wagon drew up at a police station, and presently McAllister foundhimself in a small room, at one end of which iron bars ran from floor toceiling. A kerosene lamp cast a dim light over a weather-beaten desk,behind which, half-asleep, reclined an officer on night duty. A singleother chair and four large octagonal stone receptacles were the onlyremaining furniture.

  The man behind the desk opened his eyes, yawned, and stared stupidly atthe officers. A clock directly overhead struck "one" with harsh, vibrantclang.

  "Wot yer got?" inquired the sergeant.

  "A second-story man," answered the guard.

  "He took to a cab," explained Tom, "and him and his partner give us afierce chase down the avenoo. O'Halloran shot the horse, and the cab wasall knocked to hell. The other fellow clawed out before we could nabhim. But we got this one all right."

  "Hi, there, McCarthy!" shouted the sergeant to someone in the dim vastbeyond. "Come and open up." He examined McAllister with a degree ofinterest. "Quite a swell guy!" he commented. "Them dress clothes musthave been real pretty onc't."

  McAllister sto
od with soaked and rumpled hair, hatless and collarless,his coat torn and splashed, and his shirt-bosom bloody and covered withmud. He wanted to cry, for the first time in thirty-five years.

  "Wot's yer name?" asked the sergeant.

  The prisoner remained stiffly mute. He would have suffered anythingrather than disclose himself.

  "Where do yer live?"

  Still no answer. The sergeant gave vent to a grim laugh.

  "Mum, eh?" He scribbled something in the blotter upon the desk beforehim. Then he raised his eyes and scrutinized McAllister's face. Suddenlyhe jumped to his feet.

  "Do you know who you've caught?"]

  "Well, of all the luck!" he exclaimed. "Do you know who you've caught?It's Fatty Welch!"

  IV

  How he had managed to live through the night that followed McAllistercould never afterward understand. Locked in a cell, alone, to be sure,but with no light, he took off his dripping coat and threw himself onthe wooden seat that served for a bed. It was about six inches tooshort. He lay there for a few moments, then got wearily to his feet andbegan to pace up and down the narrow cell. His legs and abdomen, whichhad been the recipients of so much attention, pained him severely. Theoccupant of the next apartment, awakened by our friend's arrival, beganto show irritation. He ordered McAllister in no gentle language toabstain from exercise and go to sleep. A woman farther down the corridorcommenced to moan drearily to herself. Evidently sleep had made herforget her sorrow, but now in the middle of the night it came back toher with redoubled force. Her groans racked McAllister's heart. A stirran all along the cells--sounds of people tossing restlessly, curses,all the nameless noises of the jail. McAllister, fearful of bringingsome new calamity upon his head, sat down. He had been shivering when hecame in; now he reeked with perspiration. The air was fetid. The onlyventilation came through the gratings of the door, and a huge stove justbeyond his cell rendered the temperature almost unbearable. He began tothrow off his garments one by one. Again he drew his knees to his chestand tried to sleep, but sleep was impossible. Never had McAllister inall his life known such wretchedness of body, such abject physicalsuffering. But his agony of mind was even more unbearable. Vagueapprehensions of infectious disease floating in the nauseous air, or ofpossible pneumonia, unnerved and tortured him. Stretched on the floor hefell at length into a coma of exhaustion, in which he fancied that hewas lying in a warm bath in the porcelain tub at home. In the roombeyond he could see Frazier, his valet, laying out his pajamas anddressing-gown. There was a delicious odor of that violet perfume healways used. In a minute he would jump into bed. Then the valet suddenlycame into the bath-room and began to pound his master on the back of theneck. For some reason he did not resent this. It seemed quite naturaland proper. He merely put up his hand to ward off the blows, and foundthe keeper standing over him.

  "Here's some breakfast," remarked that official. "Tom sent out and gotit for ye. The city don't supply no _aller carty_." McAllister vaguelyrubbed his eyes. The keeper shut and locked the door, leaving behind himon the seat a tin mug of scalding hot coffee and a half loaf of sourbread.

  McAllister arose and felt his clothes. They were entirely dry, but hadshrunk perceptibly. He was surprised to find that, save for thedizziness in his head, he felt not unlike himself. Moreover, he was mostabominably hungry. He knelt down and smelt of the contents of the tincup. It did not smell like coffee at all. It tasted like a combinationof hot water, tea, and molasses. He waited until it had cooled, anddrank it. The bread was not so bad. McAllister ate it all.

  There was a good deal of noise in the cells now, and outside he couldhear many feet coming and going. Occasionally a draught of cold airwould flow in, and an officer would tramp down the corridor and removeone of the occupants of the row. His watch showed that it was alreadyeight o'clock. He fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket and found a verywarped and wrinkled cigar. His match-box supplied the necessary light,and "Chubby" McAllister began to smoke his after-breakfast Havana withappreciation.

  "No smoking in the cells!" came the rough voice of the keeper. "Give usthat cigar, Welch!"

  McAllister started to his feet.

  "Hand it over, now! Quick!"

  The clubman passed his cherished comforter through the bars, and thekeeper, thrusting it, still lighted, into his own mouth, grinned at him,winked, and walked away.

  "Merry Christmas, Fatty!"]

  "Merry Christmas, Fatty!" he remarked genially over his shoulder.

  V

  Half an hour later Tom and his "side partner" came to the cell-door.They were flushed with victory. Already the morning papers containedaccounts of the pursuit and startling arrest of "Fatty Welch," thewell-known crook, who was wanted in Pennsylvania and elsewhere onvarious charges. Altogether the officers were in a very genial frame ofmind.

  "Come along, Fatty," said Tom, helping the clubman into his bedraggledovercoat. "We're almost late for roll-call, as it is."

  They left the cells and entered the station-house proper, where severalofficers with their prisoners were waiting.

  "We'll take you down to Headquarters and make sure we've got you_right_," he continued. "I guess Sheridan'll know you fast enough whenhe sees you. Come on, boys!" He opened the door and led the way acrossthe sidewalk to the patrol wagon, which stood backed against the curb.

  It was a glorious winter's day. The sharp, frosty air stimulated theclubman's jaded senses and gave him new hope; he felt sure that atheadquarters he would find some person to whom he could safely confidethe secret of his identity. In about ten minutes the wagon stopped in anarrow street, before an inhospitable-looking building.

  "Here's the old place," remarked one of the load cheerfully. "Looks justthe same as ever. Mott Street's not a mite different. And to think Iain't been here in fifteen years!"

  All clambered out, and each officer, selecting his prisoners, convoyedthem down a flight of steps, through a door, several feet below thelevel of the sidewalk, and into a small, stuffy chamber full of mensmoking and lounging. Most of these seemed to take a friendly interestin the clubman, a few accosting him by his now familiar alias.

  Tom hurried McAllister along a dark corridor, out into a coldcourt-yard, across the cobblestones into another door, through a halllighted only by a dim gas-jet, and then up a flight of winding stairs.McAllister's head whirled. Then quickly they were at the top, and in ahuge, high-ceiled room crowded with men in civilian dress. On one side,upon a platform, stood a nondescript row of prisoners, at whom thethrong upon the floor gazed in silence. Above the heads of this file ofmotley individuals could be read the gold lettering upon the cabinetbehind them--Rogues' Gallery. On the other side of the room, likewiseupon a platform and behind a long desk, stood two officers in uniform,one of them an inspector, engaged in studying with the keenest attentionthe human exhibition opposite.

  "Get up there, Fatty!"

  Before he realized what had happened, McAllister was pushed upon theplatform at the end of the line. His appearance created a little waveof excitement, which increased when his comrades of the wagon joinedhim. It was a peculiar scene. Twenty men standing up for inspection,some gazing unconcernedly before them, some glaring defiantly at theirobservers, and others grinning recognition at familiar faces. McAllistergrew cold with fright. Several of the detectives pointed at him andnodded. Out of the silence the Inspector's voice came with the shock ofthunder:

  "Hey, there, you, Sanders, hold up your hand!"

  A short man near the head of the line lifted his arm.

  "Take off your hat."

  The prisoner removed his head-gear with his other hand. The Inspectorraised his voice and addressed the crowd of detectives, who turned withone accord to examine the subject of his discourse.

  "That's Biff Sanders, con man and all-round thief. Served two terms upthe river for grand larceny--last time an eight-year bit; that was nineyears ago. Take a good look at him. I want you to remember his face. Putyour hat on."

  Sanders resumed his original position, his fa
ce expressing the mostcomplete indifference.

  A slight, good-looking young man now joined the Inspector and directedhis attention to the prisoner next the clubman, the same being he whohad remarked upon the familiar appearance of Mott Street.

  "Hold up your hand!" ordered the Inspector. "You're Muggins, aren't you?Haven't been here in fifteen years, have you?"

  The man smiled.

  "You're right, Inspector," he said. "The last time was in '89."

  "That's Muggins, burglar and sneak; served four terms here, and then gotsettled for life in Louisville for murder. Pardoned after he'd servedfour years. Look at him."

  Thus the curious proceeding continued, each man in the line beinginspected, recognized, and his record and character described by theInspector to the assembled bureau of detectives. No other voice washeard save the harsh tones of some prisoner in reply.

  Then the Inspector looked at McAllister.

  "Welch, hold up your hand."

  McAllister shuddered. If he refused, he knew not what might happen tohim. He had heard of the horrors of the "Third Degree," and associatedit with starvation, the rack, and all kinds of brutality. They might setupon him in a body. He might be mobbed, beaten, strangled. And yet, ifhe obeyed, would it not be a public admission that he was the mysteriousand elusive Welch? Would it not bind the chains more firmly about himand render explanation all the more difficult?

  "Do you hear? Hold up your hand, and be quick about it!"

  His hand went up of its own accord.

  The Inspector cleared his throat and rapped upon the railing.

  "Take a good look at this man. He's Fatty Welch, one of the cleverestthieves in the country. Does a little of everything. Began as a valet toa clubman in this city. He got settled for stealing a valuable pin aboutthree years ago, and served a short term up the river. Since then he'sbeen all over. His game is to secure employment in fashionable houses asbutler or servant and then get away with the jewelry. He's wanted for abig job down in Pennsylvania. Take a good look at him. When he gets outwe don't want him around these parts. I'd like you precinct-men toremember him."

  The detectives crowded near to get a close view of the interestingcriminal. One or two of them made notes in memorandum books. The slenderman had a hasty conference with the Inspector.

  "The officer who has Welch, take him up to the gallery and then bringhim down to the record room," directed the Inspector.

  "Get down, Fatty!" commanded Tom. McAllister, stupefied with horror,embarrassment, and apprehension of the possibilities in store for him,stepped down and followed like a somnambulist. As they made their way tothe elevator he could hear the strident voice of the Inspector beginningagain:

  "This is Pat Hogan, otherwise known as 'Paddy the Sneak,' and his sidepartner, Jim Hawkins, who goes under the name of James Hawkinson. Hispals call him 'Supple Jim.' Two of the cleverest sneaks in the country.They branch out into strong arm work occasionally."

  The elevator began to ascend.

  "You seem kinder down," commented Tom. "I suppose you expect to getsettled for quite a bit down to Philadelphia, eh? Well, don't talkunless you feel like it. Here we are!"

  They got out upon an upper floor and crossed the hall. On their left amatron was arranging rows of tiny chairs in a small school-room ornursery. At any other time the Lost Children's Room might have aroused aflicker of interest in McAllister, but he felt none whatever in it now.Tom opened a door and pushed the clubman gently into a small, low-ceiledchamber. Charts and diagrams of the human cranium hung on one wall,while a score of painted eyes, each of a different color, and eachbearing a technical appellation and a number, stared from the other.Upon a small square platform, about eight inches in height, stood ahalf-clad Italian congealed with terror and expecting momentarily toreceive a shock of electricity. The slender young man was rapidlymeasuring his hands and feet and calling out the various dimensions toan assistant, who recorded them upon a card. This accomplished, heordered his victim down from the block, seated him unceremoniously in achair, and with a pair of shining instruments gauged the depth of hisskull from front to rear, its width between the cheekbones, and thelength of the ears, describing all the while the other features in briefterms to his associate.

  "Now off with you!" he ejaculated. "Here, lug this Greaser in and mughim."

  The officer in the case haled the Italian, shrieking, into another room.

  "Ah, Fatty!" remarked the slender man. "I trust you won't object tothese little formalities? Take off that left shoe, if you please."

  McAllister's soul had shrivelled within him. His powers of thought hadbeen annihilated. Mechanically he removed the shoe in question andplaced his foot upon the block. The young man quickly measured it.

  "Now get up there and rest your hand on the board."

  McAllister observed that the table bore the painted outline of a humanhand. He did as he was told unquestioningly. The other measured hisforefinger and the length of his forearm.

  "All right. Now sit down and let me tickle your head for a moment."

  The operator took the silver calipers which had just been used upon theItalian and ran them thoughtfully forward and back above the clubman'sorgans of hearing.

  "By George, you've got a big head!" remarked the measurer. "Prominent,Roman nose. No. 4 eyes. Thank you. Just step into the next room, willyou, and be mugged?"

  McAllister drew on his shoe and followed Tom into the adjoining chamberof horrors.

  "No tricks, now!" commented the officer in charge of the instrument.

  Snap! went the camera.

  "Turn sideways."

  Snap!

  "That's all."

  The clubman staggered to his feet. He entirely failed to appreciate theextent of the indignity which had been practised upon him. It was hoursbefore he realized that he had actually been measured and photographedas a criminal, and that, to his dying hour and beyond, these insignia ofhis shame would remain locked in the custody of the police.

  "Where now?" he asked.

  "Time to go over to court," answered Tom. "The wagon'll be waitin' forus. But first we'll drop in on Sheridan--record-room man, you know."

  "Isn't there some way I can see the Commissioner?" inquired McAllister.

  Tom burst into a roar of laughter.

  "You _have_ got a gall!" he commented, thumping his prisonergood-naturedly in the middle of the back. "The Commissioner! Ho-ho!That's a good one! I guess we'll have to make it the Warden. Come on,now, and quit yer joshin'."

  Once more they entered the main room, where the detectives werecongregated. The Inspector was still at it. There had been a big haulthe night before. He intended running all the crooks out of town by NewYear's Day. Tom shoved McAllister through the crush, across an adjoiningroom and finally into a tiny office. A young man with a genialcountenance was sitting at a desk by the single window. He looked up asthey crossed the threshold.

  "Hello, Welch! How goes it? Let's see, how long is it since you werehere?"

  Somehow this quiet, gentlemanly fellow with his confident method ofaddress, telling you just who you were, irritated McAllister to theexplosive point.

  "I'm not Welch!" he cried indignantly.

  "Ha-ha!" laughed Mr. Sheridan. "Pray who are you?"

  "You'll find out soon enough!" answered McAllister sullenly.

  "Look here," remarked the other, "don't imagine you can bluff us. If youthink you are not Welch, perhaps I can persuade you to change yourmind."

  He turned to an officer who stood in the doorway of a large vault.

  "Bring 2,208, if you please."

  The officer pulled out a drawer, removed a long linen envelope, andspread out its contents upon the desk. These were fifteen or twentynewspaper clippings, at least one of which was embellished with anevil-looking wood-cut.

  "Let's see," continued Mr. Sheridan. "You began with a year up theriver. Took a pearl pin from a man named McAllister. Then you turnedseveral tricks in Chicago, St. Louis, Buffalo and Philadelphia
, and gotaway with it every time. Have we got you right?"

  McAllister ground his teeth.

  "You have not!" said he.

  "Look at yourself," continued the other. "There's your face. You can'tdeny it. I wonder the Inspector didn't have you measured andphotographed the first time you were settled. Still, the picture'senough."

  He handed the clubman a newspaper clipping containing a visage whichundeniably resembled the features which the latter saw daily in hismirror. McAllister wearily shook his head.

  "Well," said the expert, "of course you don't have to tell us anythingunless you want to. We've got you right--that's enough."

  He pushed the clippings back into the envelope, handed it to theofficer, and turned away.

  "Come on!" ordered Tom.

  Once more McAllister and his mentor availed themselves of the only freetransportation offered by the city government, that of the patrol wagon,and were soon deposited at the side entrance of the Jefferson Marketpolice court. A group of curious idlers watched their descent anddisappearance into what must have at all times seemed to them a concreteand ever-present temporal Avernus. The why and wherefore of theseerratic trips were, of course, unknown to McAllister. Presumably he mustbe some _rara avis_ of crime whose feet had been caught inadvertently inthe limed twig set by the official fowler for more homely poultry.Fatty Welch, whoever he might be, apparently enjoyed the respectincident to success in any line of human endeavor. It seemed likewisethat his presence was much desired in the sister city of Philadelphia,in which direction the clubman had a vague fear of being unwillinglytransported. He did not, of course, realize that he was held primarilyas a violator of the law of his own State, and hence must answer to thecharge in the magistrate's court nearest the locus of his supposedoffence.

  Inside the station house Tom held a few moments' converse with one ofits grizzled guardians, and then led our hero along a passage and openeda door. But here McAllister shrank back. It was his first sight of thatgreat cosmopolitan institution, the police court. Before him lay thescene of which he had so often read in the newspapers. The big room withits Gothic windows was filled to overflowing with every variety of thehuman species, who not only taxed the seating capacity of the benches tothe utmost, but near the doors were packed into a solid, impenetrablemass. Upon a platform behind a desk a square-jawed man withchin-whiskers disposed rapidly of the file of defendants brought beforehim.

  A long line of officers, each with one or more prisoners, stood upon thejudge's left, and as fast as the business of one was concluded the nextpushed forward. McAllister perceived that at best only a few momentscould elapse before he was brought to face the charge against him, andthat he must make up his mind quickly what course of action to pursue.As he stepped down from the doorway there was a perceptible flutteramong the spectators. Several hungry-looking men with note-books openedthem and poised their pencils expectantly.

  Tom, having handed over McAllister to the temporary care of a brotherofficer, lost no time in locating his complainant, that is to say, thegentleman whose house our hero was charged with having burglariouslyentered. The two then sought out the clerk, who seemed to be holding asort of little preliminary court of his own, and who, under theofficer's instruction, drew up some formal document to which thecomplainant signed his name. McAllister was now brought before thisofficial and briefly informed that anything he might say would be usedagainst him at his trial. He was then interrogated, as before, in regardto his name, age, residence, and occupation, but with the same result.Indeed, no answers seemed to be expected under the circumstances, andthe clerk, having written something upon the paper, waved them aside.Nothing, however, of these proceedings had been lost to the reporters,who escorted Tom and McAllister to the end of the line of officers,worrying the former for information as to his prisoner's origin and pastperformances. But Tom motioned them off with the papers which he held inhis hand, bidding them await the final action of the magistrate. Nobodyseemed particularly unfriendly; in fact, an air of generalgood-fellowship pervaded the entire routine going on around them. Whatimpressed the clubman most was the persistence and omnipresence of thereporters.

  "I must get time!" thought McAllister. "I must get time!"

  One after another the victims of the varied delights of too muchChristmas jubilation were disposed of. Fatty Welch was the only real"gun" that had been taken. He had the arena practically to himself. Nowonly one case intervened. He braced himself and tried to steady hisnerves.

  "Next! What's this?"

  McAllister was thrust down below the bridge facing the bench, and Tombegan hastily to describe the circumstances of the arrest.

  "Fatty Welch?" interrupted the magistrate. "Oh, yes! I read about it inthe morning papers. Chased off in a cab, didn't he? You shot the horse,and his partner got away? Wanted in Pennsylvania and Illinois, you say?That's enough." Then looking down at McAllister, who stood before himin bespattered dress suit and fragmentary linen, he inquired:

  "Have you counsel?"

  McAllister made no answer. If he proclaimed who he was and demanded animmediate hearing, the harpies of the press would fill the papers withfull accounts of his episode. His incognito must be preserved at anycost. Whatever action he might decide to take, this was not the time andplace; a better opportunity would undoubtedly present itself later inthe day.

  "You are charged with the crime of burglary," continued the Judge, "andit is further alleged that you are a fugitive from justice in two otherStates. What have you to say for yourself?"

  McAllister sought the Judge's eye in vain.

  "I have nothing to say," he replied faintly. There was a renewedscratching of pens.

  The Judge conferred with the clerk for a moment.

  "Any question of the prisoner's identity?" he asked.

  "Oh, no," replied Tom conclusively. "The fact is, yer onner, we took himby accident, as you may say. We laid a plant for a feller doin'second-story work on the avenoo, and when we nabbed him, who should itbe but Welch! Ye see, they wired on his description from Philadelphia acouple of weeks ago, but we couldn't find hide or hair of him in thecity, and had about give up lookin'. Then, quite unexpected, we scoopshim in. Here's his indentity," handing the Judge a soiled telegraphblank. "It's him, all right," he added with a grin.

  The magistrate glanced at the form and at McAllister.

  "Seems to fit," he commented. "Have you looked for the scar?"

  Tom laughed.

  "Sure! I seen it when he was gettin' his measurements took, down toheadquarters."

  "Turn around, Welch, and let's see your back," directed the magistrate.

  The clubman turned around and displayed his collarless neck.

  "There it is!" exclaimed Tom.

  McAllister mechanically put his hand to his neck and turned faint. Hehad had in his childhood an almost forgotten fall, and the scar wasstill there. He experienced a genuine thrill of horror.

  "Well," continued the magistrate, "the prisoner is entitled to counsel,and, besides, I am sure that the complainant, Mr. Brown, has no desireto be delayed here on Christmas Day. I will set the hearing for teno'clock to-morrow morning, at the Tombs police court. I shall besitting there for Judge Mason the rest of the week, beginning to-morrow,and will take the case along with me. You might suggest to the Wardenthat it would be more convenient to send the prisoner down to the Tombs,so that there need be no delay."

  The complainant bowed, and the officer at the bridge slapped McAllisternot unkindly upon the back.

  "You'll need a pretty good lawyer," he remarked with a wink.

  "Next!" ordered the Judge.

  In the patrol wagon McAllister had ample time for reflection. A motleycollection of tramps, "disorderlies," and petty law-breakers filled theseats and crowded the aisle. They all talked and joked, swinging fromside to side and clutching at one another for support with harshoutbursts of profanity, as they rattled down the deserted streets towardNew York's Bastile. Staggering for a foot-hold, between four women
ofthe town, McAllister was forced to breathe the fumes of alcohol, theodor of musk, and the aroma of foul linen. He no longer felt innocent.The sense of guilt was upon him. He seemed part and parcel of this loadof miserable humanity.

  The wagon clattered over the cobblestones of Elm Street, and whirlinground, backed up to the door of the Tombs. The low, massive Egyptianstructure, surrounded by a high stone wall, seemed like a giganticmortuary vault waiting to receive the "civilly dead." Warden and keeperswere ready for the prisoners, who were now unceremoniously bundled outand hustled inside. McAllister stood with the others in a small anteroomleading directly into the lowest tier. He could hear the ceaselessshuffling of feet and the subdued murmur of voices, rising and falling,but continuous, like the twittering of a multitude of birds, whilethrough the bars came the fetid prison smell, with a new anddisagreeable element--the odor of prison food.

  "Keepin' your mouth shut?" remarked the deputy to McAllister, as heentered the words "Prisoner refuses to answer," and blotted them.

  "We're rather crowded just now," he added apologetically. "I guess I'llsend you to Murderer's Row. Holloa, there!" he called to someone above,"one for the first tier!"

  A keeper seized the clubman by the arm, opened a door in the steelgrating, and pushed him through. "Go 'long up!" he ordered.

  McAllister started wearily up the stairs. At the top of the flight hecame to another door, behind which stood another keeper. In thebackground marched in ceaseless procession an irregular file of men. Inthe gloom they looked like ghosts. Aimlessly they walked on, one behindthe other, most of them with eyes downcast, wordless, taking thatexercise of the body which the law prescribed.

  McAllister entered The Den of Beasts.

  "All right, Jimmy!" yelled the keeper to the deputy warden below. Then,turning to McAllister. "I'm goin' to put you in with Davidson. He'squiet, and won't bother you if you let him alone. Better give himwhichever berth he feels like. Them double-decker cots is just as goodon top as they is below."

  McAllister followed the keeper down the narrow gangway that ran aroundthe prison. In the stone corridor below a great iron stove glowedred-hot, and its fumes rose and mingled with the tainted air thatfloated out from every cell. Above him rose tier on tier, illuminatedonly by the gray light which filtered through a grimy window at one endof the prison. The arrangement of cells, the "bridges" that joined thetiers, and the murky atmosphere, heightened the resemblance to the"'tween decks" of an enormous slaver, bearing them all away to somedistant port of servitude.

  "Get up there, Jake! Here's a bunkie for you."

  McAllister bent his head and entered. He was standing beside atwo-story cot bed, in a compartment about six by eight feet square. Afaint light came from a narrow, horizontal slit in the rear wall. Afaucet with tin basin completed the contents of the room. On the topbunk lay a man's soiled coat and waistcoat, the feet of the owner beingdiscernible below.

  The keeper locked the door and departed, while the occupant of theberth, rolling lazily over, peered up at the new-comer; then he sprangfrom the cot.

  "Mr. McAllister!" he whispered hoarsely.

  It was Wilkins--the old Wilkins, in spite of a new light-brown beard.

  For a few moments neither spoke.

  "Sorry to see you 'ere, sir," said Wilkins at length, in his oldrespectful tones. "Won't you sit down, sir?"

  McAllister seated himself upon the bed automatically.

  "You here, Wilkins?" he managed to say.

  Wilkins laughed rather bitterly.

  "I've been in stir a good part of the time since I left you, sir; an'two weeks ago I pleaded guilty to larceny and was sentenced to one yearmore. But I'm glad to see you lookin' so well, if you'll pardon me,sir."

  "I'm sorry for you, Wilkins," the master managed to reply. "I hope myseverity in that matter of the pin did not bring you to this!"

  Wilkins hesitated for a moment.

  "It ain't your fault, sir. I was born crooked, I fancy, sir. It's allright. You've got troubles of your own. Only--you'll excuse me, sir--Inever suspected anything when I was in your service."

  McAllister did not grasp the meaning of this remark; he only felt reliefthat Wilkins apparently bore him no ill-will. Very few of his friendswould have followed up a theft of that sort. They expected their men tosteal their pins.

  "Mebbe I might 'elp you. Wot's the charge, sir?"

  With his former valet as a sympathetic listener, McAllister poured outhis whole story, omitting nothing, and, as he finished, leaned forward,searching eagerly the other's face.

  "Now, what shall I do? What shall I do, Wilkins?"

  The latter coughed deprecatingly.

  "You'll pardon me, but that'll never go, sir! You'll have to getsomethin' better than that, sir. The jury will never believe it."

  McAllister sprang to his feet, in so doing knocking his head against theiron support of the upper cot.

  "How dare you, Wilkins! What do you mean?"

  "There, there, sir!" exclaimed the other. "Don't take on so. Of course Ididn't mean you wouldn't tell the truth, sir. But don't you see, sir,hit isn't I as am goin' to listen to it? Shall I fetch you some water towash your face, sir?" He turned on the faucet.

  The clubman, yielding to the force of ancient habit, allowed Wilkins tolet it run for him, and having washed his face and combed his hair, feltsomewhat refreshed.

  "That feels good," he remarked, rubbing his hands together.

  It was obvious that so long as he remained in prison he would be either"Fatty Welch" or someone else equally depraved; and since he could notmake anyone understand, it seemed his best plan to accept for the time,with equanimity, the personality that fate had thrust upon him.

  "Well, Wilkins, we're in a tight place. But we'll do what we can toassist each other. If I get out first I'll help you, and _vice versa_.Now, what's the first thing to be done? You see, I've never been herebefore."

  "That's the talk, sir," answered Wilkins. "Now, first, who's yourlawyer?"

  "Haven't any, yet."

  "All depends on the lawyer," returned the valet judicially. "Now,there's Carter, and Herlihy, and Kemp, all sharp fellows, but they'realways after you for money, and then they're so clever that the jury isapt to distrust 'em. The best thing, I find, is to get the mostrespectable old solicitor you can--kind of genteel, 'family' variety,with the goodness just stickin' hout all hover 'im. 'E creates ahatmosphere of hinnocence, and that's wot you need. One as 'as white'air and can talk about 'this boy 'ere' and can lay 'is 'and on yershoulder and weep. That's the go, sir."

  "I understand," said McAllister.

  Under the guidance of his valet our hero secured writing materials andindicted a pitiful appeal to his family lawyer.

  A gong rang; the squad of prisoners who had been exercising went back totheir cells, and the keeper came and unlocked the door.

  McAllister stepped out and fell into line. His tight clothes proved veryuncomfortable as he strode round the tiers, and the absence of acollar--yes, that was really the most unpleasant feature. His neck wasnot much to boast of, therefore he always wore his shirts low and hiscollars high. Now, as he stumbled along, he was the object ofconsiderable attention from his fellows.

  At the end of an hour another gong sounded. In a moment the tiers wereempty; fifty doors clanged to.

  "Well, Wilkins?"

  "Being as this is Sunday, sir, we 'ave a few hours' service. Church ofEngland first, then City Mission. We're not hallowed to talk, but if youdon't mind the 'owlin' you can snatch a wink o' sleep. Christmas dinnerat twelve. Old Burridge, the trusty, was a-tellin' me as 'ow it'shexcellent, sir!"

  McAllister looked at his watch in despair. It was only a quarter pastten. He had not been to church for fifteen years, but evidently he wasin for it now. Following his former valet's example, he took off hisshoes and stretched himself upon the cot.

  On and on in never-varying tones dragged the service. The preacher heldthe key to the situation. His congregation could not escape; he had afull
house, and he was bent on making the most of it.

  The hands of McAllister's watch crept slowly round to five minutesbefore eleven.

  When at last the preacher stopped, carefully folded his manuscript, andpronounced the benediction, a prolonged sigh of relief eddied throughthe Tombs. Men were waking on all sides; cots creaked; there was ageneral and contagious yawn.

  Again the gong rang, and with it the smell of food floated up along thetiers. McAllister realized that he was hungry--not mildly, as he was atthe club, but ravenous, as he had never been before. Presently thelonged-for food came, borne by a "trusty" in new white uniform. Wilkins,who had been making a meagre toilet at the faucet, took in the dinnerthrough the door--two tin plates piled high with turkey and chicken,flanked by heaps of potato and carrots, and one whole apple pie!

  "Ha!" thought McAllister, "I was not so far wrong about this part ofit!" The chicken was perhaps not of the variety known as "spring"; butneither master nor man noticed it as they feasted, sitting side by sideupon the cot.

  "Carrots!" philosophized McAllister, looking regretfully at his emptytin plate. "Now, I thought only horses ate carrots; and really, they'renot bad at all. I should like some more. Er--Wilkins! Can we get somemore carrots?"

  Wilkins shook his head mournfully.

  "Message for 34! Message for 34!"

  A letter was thrust through the bars.

  McAllister tore it open with feverish haste, and recognized the crabbedhand of old Mr. Potter.

  2 East Seventy-First Street. F. Welch, Esq.

  Sir: The remarkable letter just delivered to me, signed by a name which you request me not to use in my reply, has received careful consideration. I telephoned to Mr. Mc----'s rooms, and was informed by his valet that that gentleman had gone to the country to visit friends over Christmas. I have therefore directed the messenger to collect from yourself his fee for delivering this answer. Yours, etc.,

  EBENEZER POTTER.

  "That fool Frazier!" groaned McAllister. "How the devil could he havethought I had gone away?" Then he remembered that he had directed thevalet to pack his bags and send them to the station, in anticipation ofthe Winthrops' invitation.

  He was at his wits' end.

  "How do you get bail, Wilkins?"

  "You 'ave to find someone as owns real estate in the city, sir, to go onyour bond. 'Ow much is it?"

  "Five thousand dollars," replied McAllister.

  "'Oly Moses!" ejaculated the valet. He regarded his former master withrenewed interest.

  But the dinner had wrought a change in that hitherto subdued individual.With a valet and running water he was beginning to feel his oats alittle. He checked off mentally the names of his acquaintances. Therewas not one left in town.

  He repressed a yawn, and looked at his watch. One o'clock. Just then thegong rang again.

  "What in thunder is this, now?"

  "Afternoon service, sir. City Mission from one to two-thirty."

  "Ye gods!" ejaculated McAllister.

  A band of young girls came and stood with their hymn-books along theopposite tier, while a Presbyterian clergyman took the place on thebridge recently vacated by his Episcopal brother. Prayers alternatedwith hymns until the sermon, which lasted sixty-five minutes.

  McAllister, almost desperate, fretted and fumed until half past two,when the choir and missionary finally departed.

  "Only a 'arf 'our, sir, an' we can get some more hexercise," saidWilkins encouragingly.

  But McAllister did not want exercise. He swung to his feet, and peeringdisconsolately through the bars was suddenly confronted by an anaemicyoung woman holding an armful of flowers. Before he could efface himselfshe smiled sweetly at him.

  "My poor man," she began confidently, "how sorry I am for you thisbeautiful Christmas _Day_! Please take some of these; they will brightenup your cell wonderfully; and they are so fragrant." She pushed a dozencarnations and asters through the bars.

  McAllister, utterly dumfounded, took them.

  "What is your name?" continued the maiden.

  "Welch!" blurted out our bewildered friend.

  There was a stifled snort from the bunk behind.

  "Good-by, Welch. I know you are not _really_ bad. Won't you shake handswith me?"

  She thrust her hand through the bars, and McAllister gave it aperfunctory shake.

  "Good-by," she murmured, and passed on.

  "Lawd!" exploded Wilkins, rolling from side to side upon his cot. "OLawd! O Lawd! O--" and he held his sides while McAllister stuck thecarnations into the wash-basin.

  The gong again, and once more that endless tramp along the hot tiers.The prison grew darker. Gas-jets were lighted here and there, and theair became more and more oppressive. With five o'clock came supper; thenthe long, weary night.

  Next morning the valet seemed nervous and excited, eating littlebreakfast, and smiling from time to time vaguely to himself. Havingfumbled in his pocket, he at last pulled out a dirty pawn-ticket, whichhe held toward his master.

  "'Ere, sir," he said with averted head. "It's for the pin. I'm sorry Itook it."

  McAllister's eyes were a little blurred as he mechanically received thecard-board.

  "Shake hands, Wilkins," was all he said.

  A keeper came walking along the tier rattling the doors and tellingthose who were wanted in court to get ready.

  "Good-by," said McAllister. "I'm sorry you felt obliged to plead guilty.I might have helped you if I'd only known. Why didn't you stand yourtrial?"

  "I 'ad my reasons," replied the valet. "I wanted to get my case disposedof as quick as possible. You see, I'd been livin' in Philadelphia, and'ad just come to New York when I was harrested. I didn't want 'em tofind out who I was or where I come from, so I just gives the name ofDavidson, and takes my dose."

  "Well," said McAllister, "you're taking your own dose; I'm takingsomebody else's. That hardly seems a fair deal--now does it, Wilkins?But, of course, you don't know but that I _am_ Welch."

  "Oh, yes, I do, sir!" returned the valet. "You won't never be punishedfor what he done."

  "How do you know?" exclaimed McAllister, visions of a speedy releasecrowding into his mind. "And if you knew, why didn't you say so before?Why, you might have got me out. How do you know?" he repeated.

  Wilkins looked around cautiously. The keeper was at the other end of thetier. Then he came close to McAllister and whispered:

  "_Because I'm Fatty Welch myself!_"

  VI

  Downstairs, across the sunlit prison yard, past the spot where thehangings had taken place in the old days, up an enclosed staircase, ahalf turn, and the clubman was marched across the Bridge of Sighs. Mostof the prisoners with him seemed in good spirits, but McAllister, whowas oppressed with the foreboding of imminent peril, felt that he couldno longer take any chances. His fatal resemblance to Fatty Welch, aliasWilkins, his former valet, the circumstances of his arrest, the scar onhis neck, would seem to make conviction certain unless he followed oneof two alternatives--either that of disclosing Welch's identity or hisown. He dismissed the former instantly. Now that he knew something ofthe real sufferings of men, his own life seemed contemptible. Whatmattered the laughter of his friends, or sarcastic paragraphs in thesociety columns of the papers? What did the fellows at the club know ofthe game of life and death going on around them? of the misery and viceto which they contributed? of the hopelessness of those wretched soulswho had been crushed down by fate into the gutters of life? Determinedto declare himself, he entered the court-room and tramped with theothers to the rail.

  There, to his amazement, sat old Mr. Potter beside the Judge. Tom andhis partner stood at one side.

  "Welch, step up here."

  Mr. Potter nodded very slightly, and McAllister, taking the hint,stepped forward.

  "Is this your prisoner, officer?"

  "Shure, that's him, right enough," answered Tom.


  "Discharged," said the magistrate.

  Mr. Potter shook hands with his honor, who smiled good-humoredly andwinked at McAllister.

  "Now, Welch, try and behave yourself. I'll let you off this time, but ifit happens again I won't answer for the consequences. Go home."

  Mr. Potter whispered something to the baffled officers, who grinnedsheepishly, and then, seizing McAllister's arm, led our astonishedfriend out of the court-room.

  As they whirled uptown in the closed automobile which had been waitingfor them around the corner, Mr. Potter explained that after sending theletter he had felt far from satisfied, and had bethought him of callingup Mrs. Winthrop on the telephone. Her polite surprise at the lawyer'sinquiries had fully convinced him of his error, and after evading herquestions with his usual caution, he had taken immediate steps for hisclient's release--steps which, by reason of the lateness of the hour, hecould not communicate to the unhappy McAllister.

  "What has become of the fugitive Welch," he ended, "remains a mystery.The police cannot imagine where he has hidden himself."

  "I wonder," said McAllister dreamily.

  * * * * *

  It was just seven o'clock when McAllister, arrayed, as usual, inimmaculate evening dress, sauntered into the club. Most of the men wereback from their Christmas outing; half a dozen of them were engaged inordering dinner.

  "Hello, Chubby!" shouted someone. "Come and have a drink. Had a pleasantChristmas? You were at the Winthrops', weren't you?"

  "No," answered McAllister; "had to stay right in New York. Couldn't getaway. Yes, I'll take a dry Martini--er, waiter, make that two Martinis.I want you all to have dinner with me. How would terrapin andcanvas-back do? Fill it out to suit yourselves, while I just take alook at the _Post_."

  He picked up a paper, glanced at the head-lines, threw it down with asigh of relief, and lighted a cigarette. At the same moment twopolicemen in civilian dress were leaving McAllister's apartments, eachhaving received at the hands of the impassive Frazier a bundlecontaining a silver-mounted revolver and a large bottle full of anunknown brown fluid.

  McAllister's dinner was a great success. The boys all said afterwardthat they had never seen Chubby in such good form. Only one incidentmarred the serenity of the occasion, and that was a mere trifle. CharlieBush had been staying over Christmas with an ex-Chairman of the PrisonReform Association, and being in a communicative mood insisted ontalking about it.

  "Only fancy," he remarked, as he took a gulp of champagne, "he says theprisons of the city are in an abominable condition--that they're adisgrace to a civilized community."

  Tomlinson paused in lifting his glass. He remembered his host's opinion,expressed two nights before and desired to show his appreciation of anexcellent meal.

  "That's all rot!" he interrupted a little thickly. "'S all politics. TheTombs is a lot better than most second-class hotels on the Continent.Our prisons are all right, I tell you!" His eyes swept the circlemilitantly.

  "Look here, Tomlinson," remarked McAllister sternly, "don't be so sure.What do you know about it?"