The man said he was George Reilly and a salesman. The prisoner had given her name as Mary Donovan and said she was single. The sergeant drew Mr. Reilly’s attention to the street door, which was there for his accommodation, but he did not take the hint. He became so abusive that he, too, was locked up, still protesting that the woman was his wife.
She had gone on her way to Elizabeth street, where there is a matron, to be locked up there; and the objections of Mr. Reilly having been silenced at last, peace was descending once more upon the station-house, when the door was opened, and a man with a swagger entered.
“Got that woman locked up here?” he demanded.
“What woman?” asked the sergeant, looking up.
“Her what Muller took in.”
“Well,” said the sergeant, looking over the desk, “what of her?”
“I want her out; she is my wife. She—”
The sergeant rang his bell. “Here, lock this man up with that woman’s other husband,” he said, pointing to the stranger.
The fellow ran out just in time, as the doorman made a grab for him. The sergeant drew a tired breath and picked up the ruler to make a red line in his blotter. There was a brisk step, a rap, and a young fellow stood in the open door.
“Say, serg,” he began.