She was thinking of Mr. Ray and his great grief as she stood there, and it was only the stroke of the bell that roused her from her reverie. As she passed through the corridor on her way to the dining-room an office assistant came along with a handful of letters. “Oh, have you one for me?” asked Marion, quickly. “I am Marion Marlowe, I’m in the linen-room at present.” “You were at the ‘medical,’” said the young man as he handed her a letter. “There ain’t much danger of any of us losing track of you, Miss Marlowe.” Marion looked at him quickly, and an admiring glance rewarded her. “Prettiest girl in the building,” he said, blandly. “Every man on the Island is in love with you, Miss Peaches.” “Convicts and all?” asked Marion, laughing. “If they ain’t, then they are in the right place,” was the answer; “but I guess if they wasn’t they wouldn’t all of ’em be breaking rules to look at you! Don’t you remember that fellow that got shot, Miss Marlowe?” Marion shuddered as she recalled the terrible scene, and as she walked slowly away her face paled a little. It had happened during the first week of her stay on the Island, and ever since then she had been trying hard to forget it. Then a vision of the black-souled Lawson’s tragic end flitted across her brain and she put up both hands as if to ward off such pictures. “That poor convict that jumped into the water and was shot is to be envied,” she whispered sadly. “He went down out of sight beneath the smiling waters, but Lawson, the abductor, goes to Potter’s Field. It is right! It is just! He richly deserves it!” CHAPTER XI. BERT JACKSON TO THE RESCUE. The tragedy of the “vitriol patient’s” death was almost a tragedy of two cities—the great city of New York, where crime is conceived and fostered and the smaller city on Blackwell’s Island, where crime is punished and ended. A few hours after that sad death in the Prison Hospital, the lawyer, Augustus Atherton, stood on the steps of his office waiting for his typewriter, Dollie Marlowe, to join him. As he stood there waiting he twisted his gray mustache idly. His hands were neatly gloved and his attire stylish and spotless. “Not a bad looking chap for fifty,” said a man who was passing, “and do you know, Dare, he is a great masher—a regular sport with the ladies.” “I have heard that his wife left him years ago,” was the low answer, “and that his daughter, the one that married young Ray while he was in college, was quick in striking the old man’s pace and kept it up until she went plumb to the devil.” “Where is she now?” asked the first speaker, glancing back to see if the lawyer was still waiting. “The last I heard she was seen fighting on the street. I believe her husband or some friend of his happened to see her, and for the sake of the family kept the thing quiet.” As the two men passed on, Dollie Marlowe came tripping down the steps. She was dressed in a natty blue cloth suit and looked more bewitching than ever.