Morehead nodded.
"I won't stand for it!" blustered the millionaire.
Morehead caught him by the arm and looked him in the eye.
"You've got to do as I say to the letter, or it means ruin, ruin, do you understand? I know what I'm talking about. You go into a cell without a murmur. The newspapers—all New York will talk about it; everybody will know that Colonel Morehead is gnashing his teeth at the injustice shown you. Morehead is taking an appeal, they will say; but as for you, you'll keep quiet in your cage until I let you out. It won't be long; wait and see."
They passed into the Tombs. A deputy warden nodded to Wilkinson.
"That was a narrow escape you had, Mr. Wilkinson," he said, referring to the tragedy of an hour or so before.
"I—I should think so," faltered Wilkinson, the cold sweat running down his face. "Poor Pallister! Have they got the murderer?"
"No," said the warden, "and I doubt if they'll ever get him, either. Still, you never can tell...."
"If they should find out, you'll let me know at once, won't you?" urged Wilkinson.
The warden promised. The lawyer and his client parted: Colonel Morehead went his way; Wilkinson was shown into a cell.