The next morning Sam determined upon a personal interview with the
prisoner. Upon arrival at the County jail, where the prisoner had been
transferred, Sam encountered Smith, who was standing on the curb
talking to a policeman.
"How dy yus do, Sor?" was Smith's greeting.
"Getting along as fast as could be expected," he answered.
"It do be surprisin' the number ave blackguards there do be infesting
the straits ove Portland after dark these days. Houldups, an'
'break-o-day Johnnies' an' 'shanghoin' an'--an' kidnappin'--an' what
bates me, all the worrk to be had at good wages the while--whill wan
ave the rogues do be off his bait for a time, so he do!"
"Sure, Smith, no mistake about that," Sam laughed. "We slipped it over
him in fine shape last night. Have you seen him this morning?"
"Indade oi 'ave, Sor, and he's the very wan that run the soule ave his
plexis ferninst me hand the other day for spakin' disrespectful ave a
lady."
"I came to see him," Sam said, with a smile at Smith's chivalry.
"Indade! Sure yees'll not recognize him as the wan we tuk last night
at all, fir the color ave hair do be turnin' from black to a faded
straw, so it do."
"Through terror of his position, I suppose."
"Not wan bit, sor. It came out in the wash. It do be this way. Yees
see, the orficers cudn't get him to spake wan worrd an' no sweatbox or
other terror ave the force did he fear, at all, sure! So they turned
the water on him, after takin' off his clothes with the aid of two
'trustys,' and it was raymarked by the jailer that his skin do look
uncommon fair, an the hair on his limbs was a sandy color, an' not
black, like the hair on his hid, and his mustache oily black, too, so
it do."
"Artificial coloring," suggested Sam.
"Sure, that's jist phat the jailor sid, the very same worrds, although
do yees naw the color blend av his nick from the color bone up was a
beautiful bit of worrk, as nate an' natural as anything yees would
want to see."
"He is possibly an Italian artist."
"Sure, he's no Italian at all, fir the trustys soaped an' lathered an'
scrubbed all the Dago off ave him. He raysisted loike a madman, but it
was no use, and whin they held him under the shower bath his heavy
black mustache fell off onto the floor. Wan ave the trustys picked it
up and said, says he: 'By jimminy, he's no Dago at all; he's a
scoogy.' An' I say so, too, so I do. And the jailer raymarked it was
just as he expected, and then he tould them to get the scoogy into his
duds."
"I will try and get permission to see him."
Sam then entered the office, followed by Smith. They were readily
allowed to see the prisoner, and upon approaching his cell, Sam
recognized him at once, and the Sheriff wrote on the record, opposite
the name of George Golda--"Alias, Jack Shore."
An hour later Sam Harris was closeted with Detective Simms, in his
office.
"I believe the fellow who escaped from the cabin last night," said
Sam, "was Jack Shore's partner Philip Rutley, otherwise known as 'Lord
Beauchamp'."
"Why do you suspect the lord to be Philip Rutley?" inquired the
detective.
"Because they were partners in business, and inseparable chums
socially," replied Sam. "And where one was to be found, the other was
not far away."
"You say he got ten thousand dollars from the bank on your uncle's
indorsement?" inquired the detective.
"Yes," replied Sam, "and tomorrow afternoon he is to be uncle's guest
at Rosemont."
"Well, tonight my lord will attempt to leave the city, but he will
find it impracticable," remarked the detective, dryly. "I desire you
to keep strictly mum on this matter for twenty-four hours, and I
promise you positive identification of his lordship."
Later, Detective Simms, smoking a cigar, sauntered carelessly into the
"sweatbox," where Jack Shore was still confined, and dumb as a stone
statue on the question of kidnapping.
After silently looking at Jack for a time, he said with a smile: "If
you had been shrewd you would not be here. You were sold."
"Then I am either a knave or a fool?" interrogated Jack, carelessly.
"To be frank," laughed Simms, "you are both. A knave for trusting
Rutley, and a fool for doing his dirty work. I suppose you will think
it is a lie when I say he 'tipped' us to the cabin for the ten
thousand dollars reward offered by Mr. Thorpe for recovery of the
child, and a promise of immunity from imprisonment."
"Who is Rutley?" nonchalantly asked Jack.
"Why, your partner; that fellow who has been masquerading as a lord."
"Lord who?"
"Come, now," Simms laughed. "Why, me Lord Beauchamp! Surprised, eh?"
and again Simms laughed and looked at Jack questioningly. "Well," he
continued at length, "you must be a cheap guy to believe that fellow
true to you. See here, he gave the whole thing away. Don't believe it,
eh? Well, I'll prove it. We knew the time Miss Thorpe was to be at the
cabin. We knew the dog was on watch and removed it. We knew the exact
time Rutley was to be with you, and arranged for him to get away
without your suspicion. Why, our man was waiting with a boat as soon
as he got out of the cabin."
"Did he get away?" It was the first question that Jack had asked,
though non-committal, in which Simms detected a faint anxiety. Simms
was the very embodiment of coolness and indifference. "Not from us,
no; but he is out on bail."
That assertion was a masterstroke of ingenuity, and he followed it up
with the same indifference. "Would you like to know who his sureties
are?"
Jack maintained a gloomy silence.
"Just to convince you that I am not joking, I will show you the
document." And Simms turned lazily on his heel and left him. Returning
a few moments later with a document, he held it for Jack to look at.
"Do you note the amount? And the signatures?--James Harris, John
Thorpe. You must be familiar with them," and the detective smiled as
he thought of the trick he was employing to fool the prisoner, for he
had himself written the signatures for the purpose.
"Jack's breathing was heavier and his face somewhat whiter, yet by a
superhuman effort he still maintained a gloomy frown of apparent
indifference.
"The reward was paid to him this morning," continued the detective,
between his puffs of smoke.
"How much?" asked Jack, unconcerned.
"Ten thousand dollars!"
"Quite a hunk!" Jack said, carelessly. For he thought of the package
that Rutley had deftly abstracted from his pocket in the cabin, and he
was glad of it, for it would be used in his defense. And then he
muttered to himself: "This 'duffer' is slick and thinks he can work
me, but I'll fool him."
"The fellow is pretty well fixed," continued the detective, as he eyed
Jack inquisitively.
"Clear of this case with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket."
"What!" exclaimed Jack, for the first time amazed, and then checking
himself, said negligently:
"I understood you to say the reward was ten thousand dollars?"
"So I did. Ten thousand reward and that ransom money of Miss
Thorpe's."
"The devil he has!"
Jack was beginning to waver. He thought of Rutley holding back the
"tip" that he was shadowed, and also about the dog not barking at his
approach, for some time after he had entered the cabin. Either of
which incidents, had it been mentioned immediately upon entry, would
have made escape possible. It seemed to corroborate the detective's
assertion--that he was sold. His jaws set hard.
"Can you prove that to me?"
"Sure!"