Paul Ralston by Mary Jane Holmes

When Paul heard the key turned upon him and the sound of voices die away and began to realize that he could not get out if he wished to, a kind of frenzy seized him and for a time he was beside himself. What business had Max Allen to arrest him, innocent as he was of the dreadful accusation brought against him? Why had his father and Tom allowed it and left him there in jail, shut in with bars and bolts? He would get out,-he would be free. Going to the heavy door, he shook it with all his strength, but it did not yield to his blows. There was another one leading to the passage connecting with the janitor's rooms, and he tried that next. But it was locked and bolted. He could not get out there. He stood upon the chair and shook the iron bars across the open window. If they moved he did not know it, and with a despairing look at the ocean and the white sails against the evening sky he gave that up. There was no way of escape unless it were through the wide chimney. He might get out there, and going down on the hearth on his hands and knees, he looked up the sooty flue to where a ledge of brick and mortar broke the line and impeded the way. The chimney was impracticable. He was hemmed in on every side,-a prisoner. The perspiration was rolling down his face and back and arms,-there was a buzzing in his ears and a throbbing in his head as he began to walk up and down his rather small apartment.

"Am I mad? If not, I soon shall be," he said, and then his thoughts went back to the time when a boy in the Boston High School he had spoken the "Maniac's Plea,"