There was another man in New York I knew--Shinburn’s friend Matthews; Billy, he called him. I remembered that his address was 681 Broadway, so I determined to look him up. Knowing Shinburn, I ought not to have been surprised at anything in Matthews, but I was actually dumfounded when I learned that 681 Broadway was a notorious gambling house kept by one Harvey Young, and that Matthews was a faro dealer there. Young’s place was at that time an attractive resort for the younglings of New York’s rich men, thousands of whose dollars passed over the green cloth every night. I now knew why Mr. Wheeler, the assistant prosecutor, in summing up at the Keene trial, had pointed out Matthews and asked the court in scornful tones to look upon the sort of man “they bring from the reeking hells of New York to be a witness in a New Hampshire court of justice.” Undoubtedly the New York detectives had known that much of Matthews and had told it to Mr. Wheeler. But I had reached and passed the fatal line now, and it seemed to me that I wasn’t sorry to learn what this man Matthews was,--an employee in a gambling den. Even if he were a criminal like Shinburn, I felt that I didn’t care. When I rang the bell, a man who looked like a servant answered it, and to my inquiry said Matthews wasn’t in, but would be that night. I said I would come again, and did several hours later. I had only met Matthews speaking with Shinburn in the jail at Keene, altogether perhaps a half-dozen times. He was a dapper, earnest little fellow, and seemed in all ways a better man than I imagined a gambler could be. I was greeted heartily by him, and he told me that my escape wasn’t news, an account of it having been in the newspapers. My face must have been a delineator of my determination to do something desperate, for he asked me if he could assist me in any way. I told him he might, and that there could be none too much haste to suit me. “You see the fix I am in by accommodating your friend Shinburn, whom I believed to be a government official,” I said with great feeling. “I had a clerkship here, but have been forced to resign it, that I may keep clear of arrest. Here I am, practically on my knees; and, frankly, I don’t know what to do. Can you help me on my feet again?” I knew what was in my mind to do, for I was desperate, and I awaited his answer with anxiety. “What can I do?” he asked; “you certainly are in a peculiar fix.” “I’ve got to get out and hustle,” exclaimed I, while trembling in every joint. “What do you mean?”