He walked out of the parlor into the hall-way, took down a light overcoat from the coat-rack, and put it on. Palmer assisted him.
"You are taking this very coolly, Mr. Sullivan," said the officer.
"Yes," was the answer, "why shouldn't I? My conscience does not trouble me."
"This proceeding was not altogether unexpected?"
"Well, yes, it was rather, at this hour of the night."
Brown stepped to the door and Broderick followed. Sullivan came behind.
"I am ready," he said.
Brown opened the door. Broderick stepped out, closely followed by Sullivan and Palmer. The three men went down the steps to the sidewalk, where they were met by Williams. All four entered the carriage which was in waiting. A dozen people were on the sidewalk, and Sullivan's next door neighbors had gathered on the veranda to see the Irish leader driven away. The driver gathered his reins, wheeled the horses around, and started them toward Dearborn avenue at a rapid trot. The vehicle had barely reached the corner when a little newsboy, with a big bundle of evening papers under his left arm, and waving an open one with his right, ran up to the carriage window.
"Here is your extra," he screamed, with all the strength of his infantile lungs. "All about Alexander Sullivan charged with Cronin's murder."
Not a muscle of Sullivan's face moved, not a fibre of his frame, so far as the officers observed, so much as twitched. He sat in his seat as motionless as a statue, apparently the most unconcerned of the four occupants of the vehicle.