The Substitute Prisoner | Page 4

of wealth and poverty, beauty and ugliness, joy and sorrow, luxury and
squalor, purity and degradation, truth and falsehood. It is all there, in
this narrow environment, with the lights and the shadows meeting and
blending, as the noise from below merges with the silence above.
Nothing of these vivid contrasts struck the sense of Whitmore as with
nervous steps he hurried toward his destination. In the first place,
familiarity with the scene had deprived him of the faculty to read its
pitiless meaning; secondly, a feverish anxiety to have done with the
business that dominated his mind and accelerated his footsteps sent him
unheeding across Seventh Avenue and down that thoroughfare until he
stopped abruptly before one of the shabby second-hand clothing stores
with which the street abounds.
The air of prosperity with which he was invested saved him from being
seized immediately by one of the bawling salesmen and dragged into
the mothy interior of the shop. He was not of the type that submits to
being manhandled and browbeaten into purchasing cast-off garments.
But, as he stood hesitant and uncertain within the narrow radius of the
gas-lit window, one of the barkers found sufficient courage to invite
him within. And, to the utter amazement of the alert salesman,
Whitmore entered the store.
The proprietor of the place, a stooped, be-whiskered man who spoke
with a pronounced Hebraic accent, came forward to wait personally on
this elegant customer. But he found that no especial skill was required
to consummate a sale. Whitmore selected an old, dilapidated suit, a

worn coat, an old slouch hat, and a pair of heavy shoes, and almost
caused the beaming merchant to die of heart failure by paying the first
price demanded of him.
"It's for an amateur theatrical performance," Whitmore explained to the
proprietor, who was unable to hide his surprise that a customer of such
seeming prosperity should invest in these cast-off garments.
With the bundle containing the clothes under his arm, Whitmore
returned to Broadway and entered one of the hotels. He consulted a
railroad time table, after which he called for a taxicab and directed the
chauffeur to take him home.
He entered the house with his latchkey and climbed the stairs to his
room. Divesting himself of coat and vest, he stepped before the mirror
and shaved off his gray mustache. Next he produced a soft tennis shirt,
which he exchanged for the linen one he had on, and an old bow tie
took the place of the blue four-in-hand which he usually wore.
Undoing the bundle with which he had entered the house, he proceeded
to dress in the second-hand garments. When he had pulled the battered
slouch hat well down on his forehead, he surveyed himself in the glass.
The transformation was complete.
Regarding himself in this shabby disguise, he almost deteriorated in his
own estimation. It was difficult to believe that a mere change of apparel
could make such a vast difference. But one satisfaction he could not
deny himself. It was unlikely that anyone would recognize, in the
human derelict before the looking-glass, Herbert Whitmore, millionaire,
owner of the great Whitmore Iron Works. It was certain that his most
intimate friend would have failed to penetrate his disguise.
Dismissing the unpleasant reflections kindled within him, Whitmore
proceeded with characteristic assurance to execute what was in his
mind. He descended silently to the basement of the house, where he
obtained a heavy screw-driver. This he secreted in the inside pocket of
his coat. Next he went to the basement door and peered furtively
through the grating. His anxious eyes swept the street until convinced

that no inquisitive policeman was loitering in the immediate vicinity.
Then, slowly, apprehensively, he opened the door and issued, like a
thief in the night, from his own home.
CHAPTER II
The domestic life of George Collins and his wife was a daily lie which
fooled no one. For five years they had lived completely estranged
beneath the single roof that sheltered both, yet trying desperately to
conceal their conjugal infelicity from the world. But the eyes of the
world are too keen and penetrating when it comes to other people's
affairs, and such painful efforts as the Collinses made to appear
reconciled to each other were measured and appraised at their true
worth.
Marriage is a common institution and the symptoms of its discontent
are familiar to all. They appeared early in the married life of the
Collinses, were faithfully diagnosed by the members of their immediate
circle, and the prognostication based on them called for the early
appearance of Mrs. Collins as plaintiff in the divorce court.
But religious scruples and a natural abhorrence of such a proceeding
combined to keep the wife from making the one essential move
necessary for