Within five minutes the jail was reached. Williams was the first to alight, and, going up the steps, two at a time, he rapped heavily upon the iron door. In a moment it was opened. He ran down again to the carriage, and the other three men, Sullivan included, stepped out. The prisoner ascended the stone steps to the jail with deliberation, nodded to a bailiff who bade him good evening, and passed in. Not a word was spoken as the little party crossed the hall way and yard. The turnkey had evidently been prepared for the new arrival, for, no sooner had Palmer reached the head of the little stairway leading to the jail proper, than the iron gates swung open for their reception. In a dignified manner Sullivan bowed to the bailiff inside, but did not speak. The full light of a half dozen gas jets shone full on his face. Not the slightest change was observable in his appearance. He was just as cool, just as collected, just as courteous, as he had appeared to his clients in his office but a few hours before. He stepped up to the wicket as Palmer read the mittimus to the deputy jailer, and, when the latter bade him a cordial good evening, he merely nodded his head. The officials did not ask him a single question, and when one of the bystanders approached him and asked: "Have you anything to say to-night?" he replied, in a polite but firm tone that admitted of no doubt as to its meaning:
"No, not to-night. What I have to say will be said in court. I have no more to say to-night than I had a week ago." With these words he shook hands with the detectives and others present whom he knew personally. The door to the inner cage and corridor opened, and, as soon as he had stepped in, was pulled to and locked.
The ex-Irish leader, whose name was a household word wherever, throughout the wide world, two or three of the Irish race were gathered together, was a prisoner of the State, a prisoner charged with complicity in one of the most dastardly and cold blooded murders that had ever disgraced a civilized community.
Yet, even now, his phenomenal firmness and self possession remained with him. For a few moments he paced the corridor while the turnkeys arranged the bedding which had been specially provided for him in Cell number 25 of "Murderers' Row."
"This way if you please," said one of the jailers, when this had been done.
With a respectful half inclination of the body, Sullivan stepped into the narrow cell, and the big key grated in the lock. When, ten minutes later, the same jailer peered in through the grating, the prisoner, stretched upon his cot, was as sound asleep as a new born babe.
Many of the friends of the murdered physician remained in their headquarters until the arrest had been fully accomplished, and there was considerable jubilation when the information that Sullivan had been placed behind the bars was received. Telegrams conveying the developments of the day were sent to scores of prominent Irishmen in the leading cities of the country.
"This is a splendid days work," said Luke Dillon. "This crime will now be fully exposed. The plot will be unraveled and guilty brought to punishment."
"Everything is progressing in the right direction," said P. W. Dunne, one of the closest friends of the dead man, "I am the last man to gloat over a fallen foe, but Alexander Sullivan's arrest comes none too soon."