The next morning Peabody donned the most disreputable suit in his wardrobe, neglected his ordinary visit to the barber, and called at 110 West Thirty-eighth Street, being, of course, at this time entirely unaware of the fact that the girl was Parker’s wife.  He found her sitting in a rocking chair in a comfortable, well-furnished room, and reading a magazine.  Assuming an expression of sheepish inanity he informed her that he was an old pal of “Jim’s” who had been so unfortunate as to be locked up in the same cell with him at Headquarters, and that the latter was in desperate need of morphine.  That Parker was an habitual user of the drug could be easily seen from the most casual inspection, but that it would prove an open sesame to the girl’s confidence was, as the detective afterward testified, “a hundred-to-one shot.”

“Poor Jim!” exclaimed the girl.  “Couldn’t you smuggle some into the Tombs for him?”

Peabody took the hint.  Of course he could.  It would be a hard job—­those turnkeys were so suspicious.  But he could do it for her if anybody could.  He rambled on, telling his experiences with Parker in the past, how he had been in Elmira Reformatory and elsewhere with him, and gaining each moment valuable information from the girl’s exclamations, questions, and expression.  He soon learned that she was Parker’s wife, that they were living in comparative comfort, and that she was an exceedingly clever and well-educated woman, but she said nothing during the conversation which would indicate that she knew anything of her husband’s offenses or of any persons connected with them.

After a few moments the girl slipped on her coat and hat and the two started down to the Tombs, where, by prearrangement with the officials, the detective succeeded in convincing her that he had been able to send in to her husband a small hypodermic syringe (commonly called “the needles”) which she had purchased at a neighboring drug store.

The apparent success of this undertaking put Mrs. Parker in excellent humor and she invited the supposed crook to breakfast with her at the Broadway Central Hotel.  So far, it will be observed, Peabody had accomplished practically nothing.  At breakfast the girl inquired of her companion what his particular “graft” was, to which he replied that he was an expert “second story man,” and then proceeded to indulge his imagination in accounts of bold robberies in the brown stone districts and clever “tricks” in other cities, which left Mrs. Parker in no doubt but that her companion was an expert “gun” of long experience.

Then he took, as he expressed it, “another chance.”

“Jim wanted me to tell you to put the gang ‘wise,’” said he.

The girl looked at him sharply and contracted her brows.

“Gang?” she exclaimed.  “What gang?  Oh, perhaps he meant ‘Dutch’ and ‘Sweeney.’”

Peabody bit his lip.  He had had a close call.

“Don’t know,” he replied, “he didn’t say who they were—­just to put them ‘wise.’”