As the carriage rolled round the corner of the street, bringing Marcus in full view of these acres of men, women, and children—­all waiting for him—­the little courage which he had plucked up failed him, as plucked-up courage generally does.  The sound of mingled laughter, jokes, oaths, and exclamations of impatience reached his ears.

“Great heavens!” he cried; “and I am to face all these people!” If his features could have been seen, at that instant, by some person who thought himself skilled in physiognomy, he would have been unhesitatingly pronounced guilty of several murders.  Marcus sat in the rear part of the coach, and he leaned back to avoid observation.

As the carriage entered the outskirts of the throng, they became aware that it contained the man of their desires.  Five small boys, who had run all the way from the station house, had brought the exciting intelligence.  The vehicle was at once surrounded by clamorous people.

“Say, Mister, wich is the murderer, hey?” asked a red-shirted fellow of Matthew Maltboy, whose corpulent figure squeezed the thin form of Fayette Overtop into a corner of the front seat.

Maltboy was not quick at thinking; but, on this occasion, a brave thought came into his head before he could turn to the speaker.  “I am the prisoner,” said he.

“I knowed you wos,” was the red-shirted reply, “by your—­ugly face.”

“Thank you,” said Matthew, meekly.

“That’s the chap that killed the old man—­him with the big chops,” said the red-shirted individual to his numerous red and other shirted friends about.

“What! that fat cuss with the pig eyes?”

“Zackly!”

“He’s the puffick image of his portrait in the—­Weekly, isn’t he?”

“Like as two peas.”

There was truth in this; for the artist who sketched the portraits, had inadvertently placed Marcus’s name under Matthew’s portrait, and vice versa.

“Well,” said another man, an expert in human nature, “I’d convict that fellow of murder any time, on the strength of his looks.  Never were the worst passions of our nature more prominently shown than in that bad face.”  Having said which, the speaker looked about for somebody to contradict him, and was disappointed in finding no one.

Marcus Wilkeson said:  “Here, Matt, none of that generous nonsense, if you please.  I am the prisoner, my good people.”  As Marcus spoke, he stretched forward, and exhibited his face to the gaze of the red-shirted querist and his companions.

“No, you don’t!” said that fiery leader.  “This blubbery chap is the one.  We knows him by his picter.”

“No use disputing them, Mark,” said Maltboy, with his indomitable smile.

The friendly struggle was soon terminated by their arrival at the house.  Here the human jam was tremendous; but the police, under the direction of the lieutenant, succeeded in getting their convoy safe within the entry.  The door was then closed, and five sturdy policemen stood outside to guard it.