s in return for
work they does about the prison."

The credentials were passed upon slowly and Annie, being the twentieth
in line, found it a tedious wait. In front of her was a bestial-looking
negro, behind her a woman whose cheap jewelry, rouged face and
extravagant dress proclaimed her profession to be the most ancient in
the world. But at last the gate was reached. As the doorkeeper examined
her ticket he looked up at her with curiosity. A murderer is rare enough
even in the Tombs to excite interest, and as she passed on the
attendants whispered among themselves. She knew they were talking about
her, but she steeled herself not to care. It was only a foretaste of
other humiliations which she must expect.

A keeper now took charge of her and led her to a room where she was
searched by a matron for concealed weapons, a humiliating ordeal to
which even the richest and most influential visitors must submit with as
good grace as possible. The matron was a hard-looking woman of about
fifty years of age, in whom every spark of human pity and sympathy had
been killed during her many years of constant association with
criminals. The word "prison" had lost its meaning to her. She saw
nothing undesirable in jail life, but looked upon the Tombs rather as a
kind of boarding house in which people made short or long sojourns,
according to their luck. She treated Annie unceremoniously, yet not
unkindly.

"So you're the wife of Jeffries, whom they've got for murder, eh?" she
said, as she rapidly ran her hands through the visitor's clothing.

"Yes," faltered Annie, "but it's all a mistake, I assure you. My
husband's perfectly innocent. He wouldn't hurt a fly."

The woman grinned.

"They all say that, m'm." Lugubriously she added: "I hope you'll be more
lucky than some others were."

Annie felt herself grow cold. Was this a sinister prophecy? She
shuddered and, hastily taking a dollar from her purse, slipped it into
the matron's hand.

"May I go now?" she said.

"Yes, my dear; I guess you've got nothing dangerous on you. We have to
be very careful. I remember once when we had that Hoboken murderer here.
He's the feller that cut his wife's head off and stuffed the body in a
barrel. His mother came here to see him one day and what did I find
inside her stocking but an innocent-looking little round pill, and if
you please, it was nothing less than prussic acid. He would have
swallowed it and the electric chair would have been