“Manage it? What is there to be managed? I offer bail; it only remains for you to take it.”
“Oh, excuse me, but I have no authority in the matter—no more than you yourself. Mr. Orson, my chief, is the man for you to see, and he’s out of town. We don’t take bail generally in murder cases; and I can’t make an exception of this one—though I’d like to, first rate, for Ripley’s sake. Perhaps Mr. Orson might do so—in fact I should advise him to—but, as I’ve said, he’s not on hand. Then, the amount would have to be determined, the papers drawn, the proceedings submitted to a magistrate—and on the whole, it couldn’t be arranged inside of a day or two, at the shortest.”
“The devil you say!” cried Mr. Flint.
“I’m very sorry, I’m sure. But that’s about the size of it,” said Romer.
“And is—is there nothing to be done? Is this lady to remain indefinitely in the Tombs—a common prisoner?”
“Until you can bring the question before Mr. Orson, at any rate.”
“Well, where is he, Mr. Orson?”
“He’s on his vacation—down at Long Branch.”
“What hotel?”
“The * * *.”