The sergeant reached with his left hand for the inkstand, while his right clutched the ruler. He never took his eyes off the stranger. "Say," wheedled he, glancing around and seeing no trap, "serg, I say: that woman w'at's locked up, she's--" "She's what?" asked the sergeant, getting the range as well as he could. "My wife," said the fellow. There was a bang, the slamming of a door, and the room was empty. The doorman came running in, looked out, and up and down the street. But nothing was to be seen. There is no record of what became of the third husband of Mary Donovan. The first slept serenely in the jail. The woman herself, when she saw the iron bars in the Elizabeth-street station, fell into hysterics and was taken to the Hudson Street Hospital. Reilly was arraigned in the Tombs Police Court in the morning. He paid his fine and left, protesting that he was her only husband. He had not been gone ten minutes when Claimant No. 4 entered. "Was Sarah Joyce brought here?" he asked Clerk Betts. The clerk couldn't find the name. "Look for Mary Donovan," said No. 4. "Who are you?" asked the clerk. "I am Sarah's husband," was the answer. Clerk Betts smiled, and told the man the story of the other three. "Well, I am blamed," he said. THE CAT TOOK THE KOSHER MEAT The tenement No. 76 Madison street had been for some time scandalized by the hoidenish ways of Rose Baruch, the little cloakmaker on the top floor. Rose was seventeen, and boarded with her mother in the Pincus family. But for her harum-scarum ways she might, in the opinion of the tenement, be a nice girl and some day a good wife; but these were unbearable. For the tenement is a great working hive in which nothing has value unless exchangeable for gold. Rose's animal spirits, which long hours and low wages had no power to curb, were exchangeable only for wrath in the tenement. Her noisy feet on the stairs when she came home woke up all the tenants, and made them swear at the loss of the precious moments of sleep which were their reserve capital. Rose was so Americanized, they said impatiently among themselves, that nothing could be done with her. Perhaps they were mistaken. Perhaps Rose's stout refusal to be subdued even by the tenement was their hope, as it was her capital. Perhaps her spiteful tread upon the stairs heralded the coming protest of the freeborn American against slavery, industrial or otherwise, in which their day of deliverance was dawning. It may be so. They didn't see it. How should they? They were not Americanized; not yet. However that might be, Rose came to the end that was to be expected. The judgment of the tenement was, for the time, borne out by experience. This was the way of it: