That evening Monteagle accompanied Blodget to one of those gay houses in Dupont street, already mentioned.
Wit, wine, and beauty sparkled on every side, and again was the imagination of Monteagle bewildered by the transcendent loveliness of Italian, English, North American and South American beauties, who, although accounted frail daughters of Eve, were a much more intellectual, sentimental, and educated class than is to be found in the halls of pleasure in any of the older cities.
While Blodget and Monteagle were thus spending the evening in converse with the nymphs of the town, the latter several times observed Blodget to pause a moment, and sit with lips apart and absent eye, as if listening for some sound in the street.
He was under the impression that Blodget looked for the arrival of some other person. At length a confused murmur was heard as of a crowd at a distance. The sound approached nearer, and at length, in full cry, burst upon the air, such exclamations as ‘Stop him! stop thief! Broke away! There he goes! Knock him down,’ and this was followed by the discharge of fire-arms, and then came the trampling of many feet, and a confused roar as of a mighty concourse in motion.
Every one in the house flew to the windows and doors; but nothing was to be seen except a crowd of people hurrying along with loud outcries.
‘What is the matter?’ inquired Monteagle of a person whom he knew, and who just then paused opposite the window.
‘Oh, nothing much, sir,’ was the careless reply. ‘A fellow confined for murder has broken loose; but that we shall always have while such a police exists.’
‘There’s next to no law in San Francisco,’ observed Blodget, ‘but do you think, my good man, that the Irishman,—that the prisoner—will get clear?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the other, moving on, while Monteagle quickly said, ‘So, you think it’s Jamie?’
‘Who else can it be?’ said Blodget, ‘he is the man who has been arrested for murder.’