She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. THE PRISON-BREAKER. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. The investigators should have thought to check inside the garbage can. There was no response. The stage manager came out from the wings, and taking her hand led her off.
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