clamorous people.

"Say, Mister, wich is the murderer, hey?" asked a red-shirted fellow of
Matthew Maltboy, whose corpulent figure squeezed the thin form of
Fayette Overtop into a corner of the front seat.

Maltboy was not quick at thinking; but, on this occasion, a brave
thought came into his head before he could turn to the speaker. "I am
the prisoner," said he.

"I knowed you wos," was the red-shirted reply, "by your--ugly face."

"Thank you," said Matthew, meekly.

"That's the chap that killed the old man--him with the big chops," said
the red-shirted individual to his numerous red and other shirted
friends about.

"What! that fat cuss with the pig eyes?"

"Zackly!"

"He's the puffick image of his portrait in the--Weekly, isn't he?"

"Like as two peas."

There was truth in this; for the artist who sketched the portraits, had
inadvertently placed Marcus's name under Matthew's portrait, and
_vice versa_.

"Well," said another man, an expert in human nature, "I'd convict that
fellow of murder any time, on the strength of his looks. Never were the
worst passions of our nature more prominently shown than in that bad
face." Having said which, the speaker looked about for somebody to
contradict him, and was disappointed in finding no one.

Marcus Wilkeson said: "Here, Matt, none of that generous nonsense, if
you please. I am the prisoner, my good people." As Marcus spoke, he
stretched forward, and exhibited his face to the gaze of the red-shirted
querist and his companions.

"No, you don't!" said that fiery leader. "This blubbery chap is the one.
We knows him by his picter."

"No use disputing them, Mark," said Maltboy, with his indomitable smile.

The friendly struggle was soon terminated by their arrival at the house.
Here the human jam was tremendous; but the police, under the direction
of the lieutenant, succeeded in getting their convoy safe within the
entry. The door was then closed, and five sturdy policemen stood outside
to guard it.

On entering the room, everybody and everything were found just as they
had been the day before--a day that seemed to Marcus a month ago. The
jury were idling over the newspapers, or lazily turning their quids. The
coroner, who looked a little the worse for his dinner of the day before,
was bandying jokes with the facetious reporters. The other reporters
were sharpening their pencils and laying out their note books. Some--the
younger ones--were listening with a sp