Simpson started, but the sheriff called him back.
“Never mind,” he said, “it won’t pay; Jack won’t try to get away from us, will you, Jack?” drawing a revolver from his pocket as he spoke, and grasping it firmly in his right hand, with his finger on the trigger.
“D’ye tak’ me for a fool, mon?” said Rennie, laughing, as he glanced at the weapon; then, turning to Carolan and Pleadwell, he continued, “Good-nicht; good-nicht and sweet dreams till ye!” Jack had never seemed in a gayer mood than as he marched off through the side-door, with the sheriff and his deputy; perhaps it was the gayety of despair.
Carolan had not replied to the prisoner’s cheery “good-nicht.” He had looked on at the action of the sheriff, with a curious expression in his eyes, until the trio started away, and then he had hurried from the court-room at a gait which made Pleadwell stare after him in astonishment.
It was dark outside; very dark. A heavy fog had come up from the river and enshrouded the entire city. The street-lamps shone but dimly through the thick mist, and a fine rain began to fall, as Tom and Sandy hurried along to their hotel, where they were to have supper, before going, on the late train, to their homes.
Up from the direction of the court-house came to their ears a confusion of noises; the shuffling of many feet, loud voices, hurried calls, two pistol-shots in quick succession; a huge, panting figure pushing by them, and disappearing in the fog and darkness; by and by, excited men hurrying toward them.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sandy.
And some one, back in the mist, replied,—
“Jack Rennie has escaped!”