He seized his tall hat, placed it upon his head and strode rapidly through the door.

“He will too!” remarked Bonnie, winking at Tutt.

“He thinks that tramp is either a statesman or a prophet!” mused Tutt, his mind reverting to his partner’s earlier remarks.

“He won’t think so after he’s seen him,” replied Mr. Doon.

It sometimes happens that those who seek to establish great principles and redress social evils involve others in an involuntary martyrdom far from their desires.  Mr. Tutt would have gone to the electric chair rather than see the Hepplewhite Tramp, as he was popularly called by the newspapers convicted of a crime, but the very fact that he had become his legal champion interjected a new element into the situation, particularly as O’Brien, Mr. Tutt’s arch enemy in the district attorney’s office, had been placed in charge of the case.

It would have been one thing to let Hans Schmidt—­that was the tramp’s name—­go, if after remaining in the Tombs until he had been forgotten by the press he could have been unobtrusively hustled over the Bridge of Sighs to freedom.  Then there would have been no comeback.  But with Ephraim Tutt breathing fire and slaughter, accusing the police and district attorney of being trucklers to the rich and great, and oppressors of the poor—­law breakers, in fact—­O’Brien found himself in the position of one having an elephant by the tail and unable to let go.

In fact, it looked as if the case of the Hepplewhite Tramp might become a political issue.  That there was something of a comic side to it made it all the worse.

“Holy cats, boys!” snorted District Attorney Peckham to the circle of disgruntled police officers and assistants gathered about him on the occasion described by the reporters as his making a personal investigation of the case, “Why in the name of common sense didn’t you simply boot the fellow into the street?”

“I wish we had, counselor!” assented the captain of the Hepplewhite precinct mournfully.  “But we thought he was a burglar.  I guess he was, at that—­and it was Mr. Hepplewhite’s house.”

“I’ve heard that until I’m sick of it!” retorted Peckham.

“One thing is sure—­if we turn him out now Tutt will sue us all for false arrest and put the whole administration on the bum,” snarled O’Brien.

“But I didn’t know the tramp would get Mr. Tutt to defend him,” expostulated the captain.  “Anyhow, ain’t it a crime to go to sleep in another man’s bed?”

“If it ain’t it ought to be!” declared his plain-clothes man sententiously.  “Can’t you indict him for burglary?”

“You can indict all day; the thing is to convict!” snapped Peckham.  “It’s up to you, O’Brien, to square this business so that the law is vindicated—­somehow It must be a crime to go into a house on Fifth Avenue and use it as a hotel.  Why, you can’t cross the street faster than a walk these days without committing a crime.  Everything’s a crime.”