e to correct this, and said that his real name was
Martin Luther, a foreigner, but naturalised for years, and we should
find his papers at the Reform Club, S.W."

"I don't seem to have met either of these Martins--or not in life,"
I said thoughtfully.

"Well, sir, if you ask _me_," he agreed, "I should be surprised if
you had; for between ourselves, as it were, I don't believe he's
either of his alleged Martins. And the Station don't think much of
his names and addresses."

"Does _he_ want to be bailed out, too?" I asked.

"He didn't ask it. He weren't in no condition, sir--as you might put
it--when I left. But Mr. Collingwood, he says to me (I took a note,
sir, of the very words he used)"--the man pulled out a note-book from
his breast-pocket, and held it forward under the light--"'You go to
Sir Roderick,' he says, 'and tell him from me that the prodigal is
returned bearing his calf with him.'" The constable read it out
carefully, word by word. "I don't know what it means, sir; but that
was his message, and he said it twice over."

"There seems to be more in this than meets the eye," said I,
pondering the riddle.

"You wouldn't say so, sir, if you'd seen Hagan's," said he, retiring
with the last word and, on top of it, a genially open grin.

I was dressed in ten minutes or so, and we sped to Ensor Street.
There I found my young reprobate sober and cheerful and unabashed.

"Sorry to give you this trouble, old man," was his greeting.
"Sort of thing that happens when a fellow gets mixed up in politics."

"You shall tell me all about it," said I, "when we've gone through
the little formalities of release. . . . What have I to sign?"
I asked the sergeant who played escort.

"Oh, but wait a moment," put in Jimmy. "There's another bird. The
animals came in two by two--eh, Sergeant Noah? I say, Otty, you'll
be in a fearful way when you see him. But I couldn't help it--upon
my soul I couldn't: and you'll have to be kind to him."

"Who is it?" I demanded.

"It's--Well, he gave the name of Martin Luther. But you judge for
yourself. Sergeant Bostock--or are you Wombwell?--take Sir Haroun
Alraschid to the next cage and show him the Great Reformer."

To the next cell I was led in a state of expectancy that indeed
justified his allusion to the _Arabian Nights_. And the door opened
and the light shone--upon Mr. Peter Farrell!

It was a swollen eye that Mr. Farrell upturned to us from his low
bed, and a sw