earance. He was just
as cool, just as collected, just as courteous, as he had appeared to his
clients in his office but a few hours before. He stepped up to the
wicket as Palmer read the mittimus to the deputy jailer, and, when the
latter bade him a cordial good evening, he merely nodded his head. The
officials did not ask him a single question, and when one of the
bystanders approached him and asked: "Have you anything to say
to-night?" he replied, in a polite but firm tone that admitted of no
doubt as to its meaning:

"No, not to-night. What I have to say will be said in court. I have no
more to say to-night than I had a week ago." With these words he shook
hands with the detectives and others present whom he knew personally.
The door to the inner cage and corridor opened, and, as soon as he had
stepped in, was pulled to and locked.

The ex-Irish leader, whose name was a household word wherever,
throughout the wide world, two or three of the Irish race were gathered
together, was a prisoner of the State, a prisoner charged with
complicity in one of the most dastardly and cold blooded murders that
had ever disgraced a civilized community.

Yet, even now, his phenomenal firmness and self possession remained with
him. For a few moments he paced the corridor while the turnkeys arranged
the bedding which had been specially provided for him in Cell number 25
of "Murderers' Row."

"This way if you please," said one of the jailers, when this had been
done.

With a respectful half inclination of the body, Sullivan stepped into
the narrow cell, and the big key grated in the lock. When, ten minutes
later, the same jailer peered in through the grating, the prisoner,
stretched upon his cot, was as sound asleep as a new born babe.

Many of the friends of the murdered physician remained in their
headquarters until the arrest had been fully accomplished, and there was
considerable jubilation when the information that Sullivan had been
placed behind the bars was received. Telegrams conveying the
developments of the day were sent to scores of prominent Irishmen in the
leading cities of the country.

"This is a splendid days work," said Luke Dillon. "This crime will now
be fully exposed. The plot will be unraveled and guilty brought to
punishment."

"Everything is progressing in the right direction," said P. W. Dunne,
one of the closest friends of the dead man, "I am the last man to gloat
over a fallen foe, but Alexander Sull