McWhirter had picked himself up, kicked viciously at the car, and,
gathering up his impedimenta, had made the rest of the journey by
foot and street-car.

His wrath at finding me a prisoner was unbounded; his scorn at
Walters, the attorney, for not confounding the police with law
enough to free me, was furious and contemptuous. He picked up the
oars in sullen silence, and, leaning on them, called a loud and
defiant farewell for the benefit of the officer.

"All right," he said. "An hour or so won't make much difference.
But you'll be free today, all right, all right. And don't let
them bluff you, boy. If the police get funny, tackle them and
throw 'em overboard, one by one. You can do it."

He made an insulting gesture at the police, picked up his oars, and
rowed away into the mist.

But I was not free, that day, nor for many days. As I had expected,
Turner, his family, Mrs. Johns, and the stewardess were released,
after examination. The rest of us were taken to jail. Singleton as
a suspect, the others to make sure of their presence at the trial.

The murders took place on the morning of August 12. The Grand jury
met late in September, and found an indictment against Singleton.
The trial began on the 16th of November.

The confinement was terrible. Accustomed to regular exercise as I
was, I suffered mentally and physically. I heard nothing from Elsa
Lee, and I missed McWhirter, who had got his hospital appointment,