“Which is he?” “Who’s the murderer?” whispered twenty voices, as the party emerged from the stairs upon the sidewalk.

“That’s him!  That chap with the big hat and long hair.  You could pick him out of a million,” said a shrewd observer.

“What ugly eyes he’s got!  They’re sharp enough to stab ye,” added a shop girl.

“I seen some pirates hung, when I was a little gal,” remarked an old woman, “and they were pooty compared to him.”

The object of these and other remarks was the unhappy Patching, who had not yet got over his wrath at the coroner, and was scowling and compressing his lips very like a murderer.

The policeman and his companions, all but the spell-bound Marcus, could not help laughing at these ridiculous mistakes.  But Patching turned upon the crowd, and delivered among them one withering look of scorn, which fully confirmed them in the belief that he was a murderer of the deepest dye.  And when the carriage rolled away, it was followed by a volley of groans, mixed with a few pebbles, handfuls of mud, and other missiles which happened to be lying around loose.

“Here, boys, don’t act that way,” said the coroner, who had just made his appearance on the sidewalk.  “Let the poor devil go.  It’s a case of murder, clear, enough; and he won’t slip through my hands easy, I can tell ye, if he is rich.”  The coroner spoke good-naturedly, for he saw several of his political adherents among the throng.

“That’s the talk!” “Good boy!” “You’re the feller for us!” were some of the warm responses.

The coroner smiled, as he stopped to light a cigar from the pipe of a dirty admirer, and then, bowing obsequiously to the group, he stalked off in a rowdy way in the direction of his expected dinner.

CHAPTER IV.

LIGHT IN THE PRISON.

On the return of the prisoner and friends to the station house, Marcus was gratified to find a number of old business acquaintances waiting for him in the ante-room.  They were men whom he had known in his Wall-street epoch, and had always set down as good-enough friends in prosperity, but cold-shouldered creatures in an hour of trial.  He was mistaken, as many men are mistaken, in judging the hearts of business men from their white and careworn faces.  They came with warm hands, sympathetic words, and offers of bail money and other aid, if wanted.  There were short notes from two or three other old fellows whom he had not seen for years, telling him that they were at his command.

These expressions of good will touched Marcus to the heart.  He learned that, in the self-conceit of his retired and studious life, he had done injustice to these citizens of the whirling world.  With a thousand thanks for the kindness of his callers, he told them that their friendly services were not needed; that his innocence would surely be made to appear; and that, to the day of his death, he should never forget them.  Upon this assurance, repeated two or three times, his business friends withdrew with characteristic business impetuosity, wishing him a speedy release from his disagreeable position—­which is the roundabout phrase for prison.