“Through terror of his position, I suppose.”
“Not wan bit, sor. It came out in the wash. It do be this way. Yees see, the orficers cudn’t get him to spake wan worrd an’ no sweatbox or other terror ave the force did he fear, at all, sure! So they turned the water on him, after takin’ off his clothes with the aid of two ‘trustys,’ and it was raymarked by the jailer that his skin do look uncommon fair, an the hair on his limbs was a sandy color, an’ not black, like the hair on his hid, and his mustache oily black, too, so it do.”
“Artificial coloring,” suggested Sam.
“Sure, that’s jist phat the jailor sid, the very same worrds, although do yees naw the color blend av his nick from the color bone up was a beautiful bit of worrk, as nate an’ natural as anything yees would want to see.”
“He is possibly an Italian artist.”
“Sure, he’s no Italian at all, fir the trustys soaped an’ lathered an’ scrubbed all the Dago off ave him. He raysisted loike a madman, but it was no use, and whin they held him under the shower bath his heavy black mustache fell off onto the floor. Wan ave the trustys picked it up and said, says he: ‘By jimminy, he’s no Dago at all; he’s a scoogy.’ An’ I say so, too, so I do. And the jailer raymarked it was just as he expected, and then he tould them to get the scoogy into his duds.”
“I will try and get permission to see him.”
Sam then entered the office, followed by Smith. They were readily allowed to see the prisoner, and upon approaching his cell, Sam recognized him at once, and the Sheriff wrote on the record, opposite the name of George Golda—“Alias, Jack Shore.”
An hour later Sam Harris was closeted with Detective Simms, in his office.
“I believe the fellow who escaped from the cabin last night,” said Sam, “was Jack Shore’s partner Philip Rutley, otherwise known as ‘Lord Beauchamp’.”