As we know, there is a golden key that fits all locks, before which even bolts and bars have been known to fly apart, and nowhere is its power so potent and so comprehensive as in the cases of a certain class of prisoners awaiting trial, who if they can control the "coin" can be supplied with every luxury, save those of freedom and fresh air.
The man who received Philip, with a short nod, was neither better nor worse than others of his tribe. He was apparently very busy—or wished to seem so—over a large assortment of letters and bulky documents, which, he rustled ostentatiously, and a trifle offensively, as he looked at Philip over his large round spectacles, and bade him, "Morning."
"Good morning," replied Mr. Tremain, with considerable hauteur.
"Now then, what can I do for you, sir?" asked the superintendent, fussily, and with another documentary rustle.
"I have called," said Philip, quietly, "to obtain full permission to visit and to wait upon a lady now confined here, at all times, and on all days, that I may deem it necessary to do so. The lady's name is—Miss Patricia Hildreth."
He hesitated as the last words passed his lips; how strange it seemed to use her name to this coarse unsympathetic official, how incompatible with all the traditions of his and her past!
"As for my own name," he continued, "it may be better known to you than my personal appearance."
He drew out his note-book and put one of his cards on the table. The superintendent took it up and scrutinised it narrowly.
"Oh, so you're Mr. Tremain, are you?" he said at last, rolling the card between his fingers as he spoke. "Oh, yes, I've heard of you, sir, often enough. I guess we oughtn't to be strangers, Mr. Tremain, since we're both in the same profession."
"Oh, indeed," replied Philip, seeing an answer was expected. "You are a lawyer, then?"