The policeman laughed: “Oh, come off! This is the home of the Widow Hembold, all right; but you look about as much like the defunct Christopher as a yellow cur resembles a King Charles spaniel.” Christopher tried to jerk away. “Let me alone!” he cried angrily. “Will I?” said the burly policeman. “Where are your boots?” continued he. “In the house, if it is any of your business,” was the surly reply. The tumult within the house still continued; lights were carried from room to room, and flashed weirdly up and down the stairs. Thomas came hurriedly out of the door, kicking Christopher’s boots into the street as he ran down the steps. “Hello!” says the policeman: “What’s the matter in there?” “Some burglar, or lunatic let himself into the house, and into Mrs. Hembold’s room; and she’s gone into hysterics; I’m going after Dr. Philbrick.” “Let me go! Let go of me! I’m going into the house—to my wife!” said Christopher, struggling wildly. “You are going to the station, and if you don’t go decently, I’ll call the patrol;” and call the patrol he did. Christopher fought like a fury, but in spite of it he was loaded into the wagon between two burly promoters of the peace and carried to the station, where he raved like a madman all night. The next morning they had him up for drunk and disorderly. In vain he protested that he had not touched liquor, and declared that his name was Christopher Hembold. No one believed him, so he got fifteen days, and the next morning saw him marched out with the chain gang to work on the street. He had quieted down by this time, and had determined what to do; he watched his opportunity until the overseer’s back was turned toward him; all the rest of the gang except his mate also faced the opposite way. He slipped a dollar into his mate’s willing palm. “You will not see me leave; look the other way.” He obeyed, and Christopher hurried down a side street, walked swiftly through a front gate into a private yard, out through a rear gate into an alley, and was lost to the chain gang. He went direct to his lawyers. Mr. Hurd, the senior member of the firm, was seated at his desk when Christopher entered; he scarcely looked up at his salutation: “Good-morning Mr. Hurd.” The lawyer barely nodded his head, and continued his writing; after several minutes, observing Christopher still standing: “Well, sir! Have you business with me?” evidently not favorably impressed by his visitor’s appearance. “Don’t you know me, Mr. Hurd?” The lawyer looked him over in cynical surprise: “Can’t say that I ever saw you before.” “You ought to know Christopher Hembold?” interrogatively. “Yes, sir; I knew him well; good fellow, but a little cracked in the upper story.” He returned to his writing, evidently considering the matter disposed of; after a long time Christopher, still smarting from Mr. Hurd’s contemptuous remark, said: “Well?” in a questioning tone.