"Good-by," said McAllister. "I'm sorry you felt obliged to plead guilty. I might have helped you if I'd only known. Why didn't you stand your trial?" "I 'ad my reasons," replied the valet. "I wanted to get my case disposed of as quick as possible. You see, I'd been livin' in Philadelphia, and 'ad just come to New York when I was harrested. I didn't want 'em to find out who I was or where I come from, so I just gives the name of Davidson, and takes my dose." "Well," said McAllister, "you're taking your own dose; I'm taking somebody else's. That hardly seems a fair deal--now does it, Wilkins? But, of course, you don't know but that I _am_ Welch." "Oh, yes, I do, sir!" returned the valet. "You won't never be punished for what he done." "How do you know?" exclaimed McAllister, visions of a speedy release crowding into his mind. "And if you knew, why didn't you say so before? Why, you might have got me out. How do you know?" he repeated. Wilkins looked around cautiously. The keeper was at the other end of the tier. Then he came close to McAllister and whispered: "_Because I'm Fatty Welch myself!_" VI Downstairs, across the sunlit prison yard, past the spot where the hangings had taken place in the old days, up an enclosed staircase, a half turn, and the clubman was marched across the Bridge of Sighs. Most of the prisoners with him seemed in good spirits, but McAllister, who was oppressed with the foreboding of imminent peril, felt that he could no longer take any chances. His fatal resemblance to Fatty Welch, alias Wilkins, his former valet, the circumstances of his arrest, the scar on his neck, would seem to make conviction certain unless he followed one of two alternatives--either that of disclosing Welch's identity or his own. He dismissed the former instantly. Now that he knew something of the real sufferings of men, his own life seemed contemptible. What mattered the laughter of his friends, or sarcastic paragraphs in the society columns of the papers? What did the fellows at the club know of the game of life and death going on around them? of the misery and vice to which they contributed? of the hopelessness of those wretched souls who had been crushed down by fate into the gutters of life? Determined to declare himself, he entered the court-room and tramped with the others to the rail. There, to his amazement, sat old Mr. Potter beside the Judge. Tom and his partner stood at one side. "Welch, step up here." Mr. Potter nodded very slightly, and McAllister, taking the hint, stepped forward. "Is this your prisoner, officer?" "Shure, that's him, right enough," answered Tom. "Discharged," said the magistrate. Mr. Potter shook hands with his honor, who smiled good-humoredly and winked at McAllister. "Now, Welch, try and behave yourself. I'll let you off this time, but if it happens again I won't answer for the consequences. Go home."