and it was nearly that then. But after a session of whirring and buzzing and relaying operators, his voice came over the wire.
"I'm in a mess," Dudley told him, "and at present I'm being held at the Hedgewood County Jail. I think you can help me very much if you could run out here to-morrow some time." . . . "No, not an automobile accident or speeding—more serious than that—a shooting." . . . "I am being held for it." . . . "You will? That's fine. No, I have no lawyer in mind. Any one you get will be a good man, I know." . . . "No, she doesn't know anything about it. I'll probably call her in the morning. She's asleep now."
He meticulously paid the sergeant the price of the Greenwich call. Then Delaney led him away through the door that opened upon the tier of cells and picked out the cleanest and coolest of the two that were unoccupied.
"It ain't the Ritz," offered Delaney, "but you might do worse."
Dudley nodded. An Italian recovering from a Volstead jag was muttering in Sicilian in the next cell. The jail was new and stuffy and smelt of varnish. When Delaney left him, Dudley sat upon the hard cot wearily, his head in his hands, and reviewed this gladdest, maddest, saddest day of his life. He had
