The corridor into which the cells of the unconvicted prisoners opened was rather full to-day. As the sheriff entered, every one greeted him, even the sullen-browed man talking with a sobbing woman through the bars, and every one smiled. He nodded to all, but only spoke to the visitor. He said, “I guess he didn’t do it this time, Lizzie; he won’t be in long.” “That’s what I bin tellin’ her,” growled the man, “and she won’t believe me; I told her I promised you—” “And God A’mighty bless you, sheriff, for what you done!” the woman wailed. The sheriff had some ado to escape from her benedictions politely; but he got away, and knocked at the door of the last cell on the tier. The inmate opened the door himself. He was a small man, who still was wearing the clerical habit of his last criminal masquerade; and his face carried out the suggestion of his costume, being an actor’s face, not only in the clean-shaven cheeks and lips, but in the flexibility of the features and the unconscious alertness of gaze. He was fair of skin, and his light-brown hair was worn off his head at the temples. His eyes were fine, well shaped, of a beautiful violet color, and an extremely pleasant expression. He looked like a mere boy across the room in the shadow, but as he advanced, certain deep lines about his mouth displayed themselves and raised his age. The sunlight showed that he was thin; he was haggard the instant he ceased to smile. With a very good manner he greeted the sheriff, to whom he proffered the sole chair of the apartment. “Guess the bed will hold me,” said the sheriff, testing his words by sitting down on the white-covered iron bedstead. “Well, I hear you wanted to see me.” “Yes, sir. I want to get my money that you took away from me.” “Well, I guess you can’t have it.” The sheriff spoke with a smile, but his black eyes narrowed a little. “I guess the court will have to decide first if that ain’t old man Goodrich’s money that you got from the note he supposed was a marriage certificate. I guess you better not put any hopes on that money, Mr. Paisley. Wasn’t that the name you gave me?” “Paisley’ll do,” said the other man, indifferently. “What became of my friend?” “The sheriff of Hardin County wanted the man, and the lady—well, the lady is here boarding with me.” “Going to squeal?” “Going to tell all she knows.” Paisley’s hand went up to his mouth; he changed color. “It’s like her,” he muttered—“oh, it’s just like her!” And he added a villanous epithet. “None of that talk,” said Wickliff. The man had jumped up and was pacing his narrow space, fighting against a climbing rage. “You see,” he cried, unable to contain himself—“you see, what makes me so mad is now I’ve got to get my mother to help me—and I’d rather take a licking!” “I should think you would,” said Wickliff, dryly. “Say, this your mother?” He handed him the photograph, the written side upward. “It came in a Bible,” explained Paisley, with an embarrassed air. “Your mother rich?”