mmed their notes into their pockets, and
precipitately fled from the room. The policeman escorted Marcus Wilkeson
and his counsel, and Tiffles and Patching, to the carriage which brought
them, and which still stood in front of the house, an object of tragic
interest to a large crowd of men, women, and children, who had remained
about the doorway during the inquest, and could not be dispersed by the
policemen.

"Which is he?" "Who's the murderer?" whispered twenty voices, as the
party emerged from the stairs upon the sidewalk.

"That's him! That chap with the big hat and long hair. You could pick
him out of a million," said a shrewd observer.

"What ugly eyes he's got! They're sharp enough to stab ye," added a shop
girl.

"I seen some pirates hung, when I was a little gal," remarked an old
woman, "and they were pooty compared to him."

The object of these and other remarks was the unhappy Patching, who had
not yet got over his wrath at the coroner, and was scowling and
compressing his lips very like a murderer.

The policeman and his companions, all but the spell-bound Marcus, could
not help laughing at these ridiculous mistakes. But Patching turned upon
the crowd, and delivered among them one withering look of scorn, which
fully confirmed them in the belief that he was a murderer of the deepest
dye. And when the carriage rolled away, it was followed by a volley of
groans, mixed with a few pebbles, handfuls of mud, and other missiles
which happened to be lying around loose.

"Here, boys, don't act that way," said the coroner, who had just made
his appearance on the sidewalk. "Let the poor devil go. It's a case of
murder, clear, enough; and he won't slip through my hands easy, I can
tell ye, if he _is_ rich." The coroner spoke good-naturedly, for he saw
several of his political adherents among the throng.

"That's the talk!" "Good boy!" "You're the feller for us!" were some of
the warm responses.

The coroner smiled, as he stopped to light a cigar from the pipe of a
dirty admirer, and then, bowing obsequiously to the group, he stalked
off in a rowdy way in the direction of his expected dinner.

CHAPTER IV.

LIGHT IN THE PRISON.

On the return of the prisoner and friends to the station house, Marcus
was gratified to find a number of old business acquaintances waiting for
him in the ante-room. They were men whom he had known in his Wall-street
epoch, and had always set down as good-enough friends in p