Passing out at the other end of the alley, he met several members of the police force who were looking for him.
"I seed a feller makin' tracks toward the river," said the seeming countryman in answer to a query from a blue-coat.
"He's going to one of the low dives down near the dock," declared the sergeant of police, and then he quickly hastened on his way.
The man for whom all this excitement was occasioned pursued his way leisurely to the suburbs of the city, and entered a small house that stood some rods back from the street.
It was not the cottage that he had occupied at the time Rose Alstine mistook it for the Bordine residence. Soon after that untoward event, the scheming Barkswell had changed his residence to a less respectable neighborhood, against the protest of his wife, who was constantly urging him to lead a better life.
All this time Barkswell was exceedingly anxious that Iris should leave him for a better world, where she would be less troublesome.
He entered her presence to-night not in the best of humor.
Iris was reclining in a rocker, looking very pale and ill. She had been suffering of late even more than usual, and to-night a deathly sickness seemed stealing through her veins, rendering her weak and helpless.
"You are looking very pale, Iris. What is the trouble?"
"I am feeling very miserable, Andrew."