Part 3

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

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

McAllister stepped out and fell into line. His tight clothes proved very uncomfortable as he strode round the tiers, and the absence of a collar--yes, that was really the most unpleasant feature. His neck was not much to boast of, therefore he always wore his shirts low and his collars high. Now, as he stumbled along, he was the object of considerable attention from his fellows.

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

"Well, Wilkins?"

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

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

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

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

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

Again the gong rang, and with it the smell of food floated up along the tiers. McAllister realized that he was hungry--not mildly, as he was at the club, but ravenous, as he had never been before. Presently the longed-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 dinner through 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 of it!" The chicken was perhaps not of the variety known as "spring"; but neither master nor man noticed it as they feasted, sitting side by side upon the cot.

"Carrots!" philosophized McAllister, looking regretfully at his empty tin plate. "Now, I thought only horses ate carrots; and really, they're not bad at all. I should like some more. Er--Wilkins! Can we get some more 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 crabbed hand 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 have thought I had gone away?" Then he remembered that he had directed the valet to pack his bags and send them to the station, in anticipation of the 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 on your bond. 'Ow much is it?"

"Five thousand dollars," replied McAllister.

"'Oly Moses!" ejaculated the valet. He regarded his former master with renewed 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 a little. He checked off mentally the names of his acquaintances. There was not one left in town.

He repressed a yawn, and looked at his watch. One o'clock. Just then the gong 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 the opposite tier, while a Presbyterian clergyman took the place on the bridge recently vacated by his Episcopal brother. Prayers alternated with 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," said Wilkins encouragingly.

But McAllister did not want exercise. He swung to his feet, and peering disconsolately through the bars was suddenly confronted by an anæmic young woman holding an armful of flowers. Before he could efface himself she smiled sweetly at him.

"My poor man," she began confidently, "how sorry I am for you this beautiful Christmas _Day_! Please take some of these; they will brighten up your cell wonderfully; and they are so fragrant." She pushed a dozen carnations 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 hands with me?"

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

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

"Lawd!" exploded Wilkins, rolling from side to side upon his cot. "O Lawd! O Lawd! O--" and he held his sides while McAllister stuck the carnations 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 the air became more and more oppressive. With five o'clock came supper; then the long, weary night.

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

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

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

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

A keeper came walking along the tier rattling the doors and telling those 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 your trial?"

"I 'ad my reasons," replied the valet. "I wanted to get my case disposed of 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 to find out who I was or where I come from, so I just gives the name of Davidson, and takes my dose."

"Well," said McAllister, "you're taking your own dose; I'm taking somebody 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 punished for what he done."

"How do you know?" exclaimed McAllister, visions of a speedy release crowding 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 the tier. 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 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?"

The Extraordinary Adventure of the Baron de Ville

I

"I want you," said Barney Conville, tapping Mr. McAllister lightly upon the shoulder.

The gentleman addressed turned sharply, letting fall his monocle. He certainly had never seen the man before in his life--was sure of it, even during that unfortunate experience the year before, which he had so far successfully concealed from his friends. No, it was simply a case of mistaken identity; and yet the fellow--confound him!--didn't look like a chap that often _was_ mistaken.

"Come, come, Fatty; no use balkin'. Come along quiet," continued Barney, with his most persuasive smile. He was a smartly built fellow with a black mustache and an unswerving eye, about two-thirds the size of McAllister, whom he had addressed so familiarly.

"Fatty!" McAllister, _bon vivant_, clubman, prince of good fellows, started at the word and stared tensely. What infernal luck! That same regrettable resemblance that had landed him in the Tombs over Christmas was again bobbing up to render him miserable. He wished, as he had wished a thousand times, that Wilkins had been sentenced to twenty years instead of one. He had evidently been discharged from prison and was at his old tricks again, with the result that once more his employer was playing the part of Dromio. McAllister had succeeded by judicious bribery and the greatest care in preserving inviolate the history of his incarceration. Had this not been the case one word now to the determined individual with the icy eye would have set the matter straight, but he could not bear to divulge the secret of those horrible thirty-six hours which he, under the name of his burglarious valet, had spent locked in a cell. Maybe he could show the detective he was mistaken without going into that lamentable history. But of course McAllister proceeded by exactly the wrong method.

"Oh," he laughed nonchalantly, "there it is again! You've got me confused with Fatty Welch. We do look alike, to be sure." He put up his monocle and smiled reassuringly, as if his simple statement would entirely settle the matter.

But Barney only winked sarcastically.

"You show yourself quite familiar with the name of the gentleman I'm lookin' for."

McAllister saw that he had made a mistake.

"No more foolin', now," continued Barney. "Will you come as you are, or with the nippers?"

The clubman bit his lip with annoyance.

"Look here, hang you!" he exclaimed angrily, dropping his valise, "I'm Mr. McAllister of the Colophon Club. I'm on my way to dine with friends in the country. I've got to take this train. Listen! they're shouting 'All aboard' now. I know who you're after. You've got us mixed. Your man's a professional crook. I can prove my identity to you inside of five minutes, only I haven't time here. Just jump on the train with me, and if you're not convinced by the time we reach 125th Street I'll get off and come back with you."

"My, but you're gamer than ever, Fatty," retorted Barney with admiration. Thoughts of picking up hitherto unsuspected clews flitted through his mind. He had his man "pinched," why not play him awhile? It seemed not a half bad idea to the Central Office man.

"Well, I'll humor you this once. Step aboard. No funny business, now. I've got my smoke wagon right here. Remember, you're under arrest."

They swung aboard just as the train started. As McAllister sank into his seat in the parlor car with Barney beside him he recognized Joe Wainwright directly opposite. Here was an easy chance to prove his identity, and he was just about to lean over and pour forth his sorrows to his friend when he realized with fresh humiliation that should he seize this opportunity to explain the present situation, the whole wretched story of his Christmas in the Tombs would probably be divulged. He would be the laughing-stock of the club, and the fellows would never let him hear the last of it. He hesitated, but Wainwright took the initiative.

"How d'y', Chubby?" said he, getting up and coming over. "On your way to Blair's?"

"Yes. Almost missed the confounded train," replied McAllister, struggling for small talk.

"Who's your friend?" continued the irrepressible Wainwright. "Kind o' think I know him. Foreigner, ain't he? Think he was at Newport last summer."

"Er--ye--es. Baron de Ville. Picked him up at the club--friend of Pierrepont's. Takin' him out to Blair's--so hospitable, don'cher know." He stammered horribly, for he found himself sinking deeper and deeper.

"Like to meet him," remarked Wainwright. "Like all these foreign fellers."

McAllister groaned. He certainly was in for it now. The 125th Street idea would have to be abandoned.

"Er--_Baron_"--he strangled over the name--"_Baron_, I want to present Mr. Joseph Wainwright. He thinks he's met you in Paris." Our friend accompanied this with a pronounced wink.

"Glad to meet you, Baron," said Wainwright, grasping the detective's hand with effusion. "Newport, I think it was."

The "Baron" bowed. This was a new complication, but it was all in the day's work. Of course, the whole thing was plain enough. Fatty Welch was "working" some swell guys who thought he was a real high-roller. Maybe he was going to pull off some kind of a job that very evening. Perhaps this big chap in the swagger flannels was one of the gang. Barney was thinking hard. Well, he'd take the tip and play the hand out.

"It ees a peutifool efening," said the Baron.

The train plunged into the tunnel.

"Look here," hissed McAllister in Barney's ear. "You've got to stick this thing out, now, or I'll be the butt of the town. Remember, we're going to the Blairs at Scarsdale. You're the particular friend of a man named Pierrepont--fellow with a glass eye who owns a castle somewhere in France. . . . Are you satisfied yet?" he added indignantly.

"I'm satisfied you're Fatty Welch," Barney replied. "I ain't on to your game, I admit. Still, I can do the Baron act awhile if it amuses you any."

The train emerged from the tunnel, and McAllister observed that there were other friends of his on the car, bound evidently for the same destination. Well, anything was better than having that confounded story about the Tombs get around. He had often thought that if it ever did he would go abroad to live. He couldn't stand ridicule. His dignity was his chief asset. Nothing so effectually, as McAllister well knew, conceals the absence of brains. But could he ever in the wide, wide world work off the detective as a baron? Well, if he failed, he could explain the situation on the basis of a practical joke and save his face in that way. Just at present the Baron was getting along famously with Wainwright. McAllister hoped he wouldn't overdo it. One thing, thank Heaven, he remembered--Wainwright had flunked his French disgracefully at college and probably wouldn't dare venture it under the circumstances. There was still a chance that he might convince his captor of his mistake before they reached Scarsdale, and on the strength of this he proposed a cigar. But Wainwright had frozen hard to his Baron and accepted for himself with alacrity, even suggesting a drink on his own account. McAllister's heart failed him as he thought of having to present the detective to Mrs. Blair and her fashionable guests and--by George, the fellow hadn't got a dress-suit! They never could get over _that_. It was bad enough to lug in a stranger--a "copper"--and palm him off as the distinguished friend of a friend, but a feller without any evening clothes--impossible! McAllister wanted to shoot him. Was ever a chap so tied up? And now if the feller wasn't talking about Paris! _Paris!_ He'd make some awful break, and then-- Oh, curse the luck, anyway!

Then it was that McAllister resolved to do something desperate.

II

"I'm perfectly delighted to have the Baron. Why didn't you bring Pierrepont, too? How d'y' do, Baron? Let me present you to my husband. Gordon--Baron de Ville. I'll put you and Mr. McAllister together. We're just a little crowded. You've hardly time to dress--dinner in just nineteen minutes."

"Zank you! It ees so vera hospitable!" said the Baron, bowing low, and twirling his mustache in the most approved fashion.

"Come on, de Ville." McAllister slapped his Old-Man-of-the-Sea upon the back good-naturedly. "You can give Mrs. Blair all the _risque_ Paris gossip at dinner." They followed the second man upstairs. Although an old friend of both Mrs. Blair and her husband, McAllister had never been at the Scarsdale house before. It was new, and massively built. They were debating whether or not to call it Castle Blair. The second man showed them to a room at the extreme end of a wing, and as the servant laid out the clothes McAllister thought the man eyed him rather curiously. Well, confound it, he was getting used to it. Barney lit a cigarette and measured the distance from the window to the ground with a discriminating eye.

"Well," said the clubman, after the second man had finally retired, "are you satisfied? And what the deuce is going to happen now?"

Barney sank into a Morris chair and thrust his feet comfortably on to the fender.

"Fatty," said he, as he blew a multitude of tiny rings toward the blaze, "you're a wizard! Never seen such nerve in my life--and you only out two months! You've got the clothes, and, what's more, you've got the real chappie lingo. It's great! I'm sorry to have to pull in such an artist. I am, honest. An' now you've got to go behind prison bars! It's sad--positively sad!"

"Look here!" demanded McAllister. "Do you mean to tell me you're such a bloomin' ass as to think that I'm a crook, a professional burglar, who's got an introduction into society--a what-do-you-call-him? Oh, yes--Raffles?"

Barney grinned at his victim, who was just getting into his dress-coat.

"Don't throw such a chest, Fatty!" he said genially. "I think you've got Raffles whipped to a standstill. But you can't fool me, and you can't lose me. By the way, what am I goin' to do for evenin' clothes?"

"Dunno. Have to stay up here, I guess. You can't come to dinner in those togs. It would queer everything."

"I'm goin', just the same. Not once do I lose sight of you, old chappie, until you're safely in the cooler at headquarters. Then your swell friends can bail you out!"

It was time for dinner. The little Dresden china clock on the mantel struck the hour softly, politely. McAllister glanced toward the door. The room was the largest of a suite. A small hall intervened between them and the main corridor. His hand trembled as he lit a Philip Morris.

"Come on, then," he muttered over his shoulder to Barney, and led the way to the door leading into the bath-room, which was next the door into the hall and identical with it in appearance. He held it politely ajar for the detective, with a smile of resignation.

"Apres vous, mon cher Baron!" he murmured.