Mac’s reply to this was a violent resume of the ancestry and present lost condition of the Philadelphia police, ending with a request that I jump over, and let them go to the place he had just designated as their abiding-place in eternity.  On an officer lounging to the rail and looking down, however, he subsided into a low muttering.

The story of how McWhirter happened to be floating on the bosom of the Delaware River before five o’clock in the morning was a long one —­it was months before I got it in full.  Briefly, going home from the theater in New York the night before, he had bought an “extra” which had contained a brief account of the Ella’s return.  He seems to have gone into a frenzy of excitement at once.  He borrowed a small car,—­one scornfully designated as a “road louse,”—­and assembled in it, in wild confusion, one suit of clothes for me, his own and much too small, one hypodermic case, an armful of newspapers with red scare-heads, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of digitalis, one police card, and one excited young lawyer, of the same vintage in law that Mac and I were in medicine.  At the last moment, fearful that the police might not know who I was, he had flung in a scrapbook in which he had pasted—­with a glue that was to make his fortune—­ records of my exploits on the football field!

A dozen miles from Philadelphia the little machine had turned over on a curve, knocking all the law and most of the enthusiasm out of Walters, the legal gentleman, and smashing the brandy-bottle.  McWhirter had picked himself up, kicked viciously at the car, and, gathering up his impedimenta, had made the rest of the journey by foot and street-car.

His wrath at finding me a prisoner was unbounded; his scorn at Walters, the attorney, for not confounding the police with law enough to free me, was furious and contemptuous.  He picked up the oars in sullen silence, and, leaning on them, called a loud and defiant farewell for the benefit of the officer.

“All right,” he said.  “An hour or so won’t make much difference.  But you’ll be free today, all right, all right.  And don’t let them bluff you, boy.  If the police get funny, tackle them and throw ’em overboard, one by one.  You can do it.”

He made an insulting gesture at the police, picked up his oars, and rowed away into the mist.

But I was not free, that day, nor for many days.  As I had expected, Turner, his family, Mrs. Johns, and the stewardess were released, after examination.  The rest of us were taken to jail.  Singleton as a suspect, the others to make sure of their presence at the trial.

The murders took place on the morning of August 12.  The Grand jury met late in September, and found an indictment against Singleton.  The trial began on the 16th of November.

The confinement was terrible.  Accustomed to regular exercise as I was, I suffered mentally and physically.  I heard nothing from Elsa Lee, and I missed McWhirter, who had got his hospital appointment, and who wrote me cheering letters on pages torn from order-books or on prescription-blanks.  He was in Boston.