CHAPTER XVIII.

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!"