y something in the text
before them--a name, Harding.

Billy Byrne shook himself and commenced to read:

The marriage of Barbara, daughter of Anthony Harding, the
multimillionaire, to William Mallory will take place on the twenty-fifth
of June.

The article was dated New York. There was more, but Billy did not
read it. He had read enough. It is true that he had urged her to marry
Mallory; but now, in his lonesomeness and friendlessness, he felt almost
as though she had been untrue to him.

"Come along, Byrne," a bailiff interrupted his thoughts, "the jury's
reached a verdict."

The judge was emerging from his chambers as Billy was led into the
courtroom. Presently the jury filed in and took their seats. The foreman
handed the clerk a bit of paper. Even before it was read Billy knew
that he had been found guilty. He did not care any longer, so he told
himself. He hoped that the judge would send him to the gallows. There
was nothing more in life for him now anyway. He wanted to die. But
instead he was sentenced to life imprisonment in the penitentiary at
Joliet.

This was infinitely worse than death. Billy Byrne was appalled at the
thought of remaining for life within the grim stone walls of a prison.
Once more there swept over him all the old, unreasoning hatred of the
law and all that pertained to it. He would like to close his steel
fingers about the fat neck of the red-faced judge. The smug jurymen
roused within him the lust to kill. Justice! Billy Byrne laughed aloud.

A bailiff rapped for order. One of the jurymen leaned close to a
neighbor and whispered. "A hardened criminal," he said. "Society will be
safer when he is behind the bars."

The next day they took Billy aboard a train bound for Joliet. He was
handcuffed to a deputy sheriff. Billy was calm outwardly; but inwardly
he was a raging volcano of hate.

In a certain very beautiful home on Riverside Drive, New York City,
a young lady, comfortably backed by downy pillows, sat in her bed and
alternated her attention between coffee and rolls, and a morning paper.

On the inside of the main sheet a heading claimed her languid attention:
CHICAGO MURDERER GIVEN LIFE SENTENCE. Of late Chicago had aroused in
Barbara Harding a greater proportion of interest than ever it had in the
past, and so it was that she now permitted her eyes to wander casually
down the printed column.

Murderer of harmless old saloon keeper is finally brought to justice.
Th