Downstairs, across the sunlit prison yard, past the spot where the
hangings had taken place in the old days, up an enclosed staircase, a
half turn, and the clubman was marched across the Bridge of Sighs. Most
of the prisoners with him seemed in good spirits, but McAllister, who
was oppressed with the foreboding of imminent peril, felt that he could
no longer take any chances. His fatal resemblance to Fatty Welch, alias
Wilkins, his former valet, the circumstances of his arrest, the scar on
his neck, would seem to make conviction certain unless he followed one
of two alternatives--either that of disclosing Welch's identity or his
own. He dismissed the former instantly. Now that he knew something of
the real sufferings of men, his own life seemed contemptible. What
mattered the laughter of his friends, or sarcastic paragraphs in the
society columns of the papers? What did the fellows at the club know of
the game of life and death going on around them? of the misery and vice
to which they contributed? of the hopelessness of those wretched souls
who had been crushed down by fate into the gutters of life? Determined
to declare himself, he entered the court-room and tramped with the
others to the rail.
There, to his amazement, sat old Mr. Potter beside the Judge. Tom and
his 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 and
winked at McAllister.
"Now, Welch, try and behave yourself. I'll let you off this time, but if
it happens again I won't answer for the consequences. Go home."
Mr. Potter whispered something to the baffled officers, who grinned
sheepishly, and then, seizing McAllister's arm, led our astonished
friend out of the court-room.
As they whirled uptown in the closed automobile which had been waiting
for them around the corner, Mr. Potter explained that after sending the
letter he had felt far from satisfied, and had bethought him of calling
up Mrs. Winthrop on the telephone. Her polite surprise at the lawyer's
inquiries had fully convinced him of his error, and after evading her
questions with his usual caution, he had taken immediate steps for his
client's release--steps which, by reason of the lateness of the hour, he
could 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, in
immaculate evening dress, sauntered into the club. Most of the men were
back from their Christmas outing; half a dozen of them were engaged in
ordering dinner.
"Hello, Chubby!" shouted someone. "Come and have a drink. Had a pleasant
Christmas? You were at the Winthrops', weren't you?"
"No," answered McAllister; "had to stay right in New York. Couldn't get
away. 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 and
canvas-back do? Fill it out to suit yourselves, while I just take a
look at the _Post_."
He picked up a paper, glanced at the head-lines, threw it down with a
sigh of relief, and lighted a cigarette. At the same moment two
policemen in civilian dress were leaving McAllister's apartments, each
having received at the hands of the impassive Frazier a bundle
containing a silver-mounted revolver and a large bottle full of an
unknown brown fluid.
McAllister's dinner was a great success. The boys all said afterward
that they had never seen Chubby in such good form. Only one incident
marred the serenity of the occasion, and that was a mere trifle. Charlie
Bush had been staying over Christmas with an ex-Chairman of the Prison
Reform Association, and being in a communicative mood insisted on
talking about it.
"Only fancy," he remarked, as he took a gulp of champagne, "he says the
prisons of the city are in an abominable condition--that they're a
disgrace 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 an
excellent meal.
"That's all rot!" he interrupted a little thickly. "'S all politics. The
Tombs is a lot better than most second-class hotels on the Continent.
Our prisons are all right, I tell you!" His eyes swept the circle
militantly.
"Look here, Tomlinson," remarked McAllister sternly, "don't be so sure.
What do you know about it?"