"Do you think that your steam yacht the Marchioness is any match for District Attorney Murgatroyd? He'd find you even in uncharted seas, and bring you back."
"It's all O. K., Counsellor," called out Bill Steen, tapping on the door; "you can go now!"
Steen unlocked the door of the dingy little room. And as Peter Wilkinson started to go, Steen intercepted him and held out his hand, hesitated a moment, and finally said:
"It ain't often that we have a man of your standing, Mr. Wilkinson, in our hotel. Would you mind a-shakin' hands before you go?"
Wilkinson shook hands with a will.
"Here's hoping that we may never see you here again," said Steen, cordially.
"You can be sure of that," answered Wilkinson, with just the ghost of a smile on his lips. At the entrance he stood an instant and looked up into the sky. "Free," he breathed, as to himself. Leslie clung to his arm, and pressed her hand against her face. They started down the steps, but Wilkinson drew back.
"The crowds—the crowds—they'll mob me again!" he cried, his huge frame shaking like a leaf.
Morehead caught him firmly by the arm.
"Come, Peter, brace up, take a big grip on yourself!" were his reassuring words. "There's no mob, no one who knows you, anyhow. You don't look so different from a lot of other men."