“That guy’s beginnin’ to fidget, Bill.  I guess your time’s about up.  What are you thinkin’ about?”

“I was thinking about your other wives.  How many did you say you have?”

“Three, all told.  The other two don’t bother me much.”

“Haven’t you ever been divorced from any of them?”

“Not especially.  Why?”

“Where do the other two live, and what are their names?”

“Elsie Morton and Jennie Finch.  I mean, those are their married names.  I use a different alias every time I get married, you see.  Course, my first wife,—­the one you met,—­her name is Smilk.  I married her when I was young and not very smart.  Elsie lives in Brooklyn and Jennie keeps a delicatessen up on the West Side.”

“Do they know where you are?”

“I don’t think so.  I forgot to tell ’em I was out on parole last year.”

“And they have never been divorced from you?”

“No.  They couldn’t prove anything on me as long as I was locked up in the penitentiary.”

“Does either one of them know about the other two?”

“I should say not!  What do you think I am?”

“Don’t lose your temper, Cassius.  I am trying to think of some way to help you,—­and I believe I see a ray of hope.  You were regularly married to Elsie and Jennie,—­I mean, by a minister, and so on?”

“Sure.  They both got their marriage certificates.  I always believe in doin’ things in the proper legal way.  It’s only fair and right.  They—­”

“Never mind.  Give me their addresses.”

CHAPTER FIVE

There were quite a number of people in the court room when the case of the State vs.  Smilk was called.  It was a bitterly cold day outside and considerable of an overflow from the corridors had seeped into the various court rooms.  But little delay was experienced in obtaining a jury.  The regular panel was stuck, with a few exceptions.  Only one member was able to declare that he had formed an opinion, and he did not form it until after he had had a good look at the prisoner,—­although he did not say so.  Two were challenged by counsel and one got off because he admitted that he was acquainted with a man who used to be connected with the District Attorney’s office,—­he couldn’t think of his name.

Smilk’s attorney succeeded in executing a very clever piece of strategy at the outset.  No sooner had the jury been sworn than he ordered the bailiffs to crowd three or four more chairs alongside his table, and then blandly invited a considerable portion of the audience to take their seats inside the railing.  The persons indicated included a tall, shabbily dressed woman and seven ragged, pinched children, ranging in years from twelve down to three.  Immediately the prosecution fell into the trap.  Two agitated Assistant District Attorneys jumped to their feet and barked out an objection to the presence of the accused’s wife and family on the inside of the fence, and the court promptly sustained them.  He also said some very sharp and caustic things to Smilk’s lawyer.  Mrs. Smilk and her bewildered seven patiently resumed their seats in the front row of spectators, but not until after a four year old girl, surreptitiously pinched, had caused a mild sensation by piping:  “I want my daddy!  I want my daddy!”