HE SLEEPS: THE WOMAN WATCHES

J. M. Reid, Separated Eight Years from His Wife, Marries Mrs. Edie Trull, of This City -- Peculiar Ideas on the Divorce Question -- An Old, Old Story at the Police Station.

On Observer reporter found that no unseemly noise disturbed the peace at the police station at 1 o'clock this morning. Within easy reach of his two telephones Turnkey Cochrane rested on two chairs and dozed fitfully. Across the room the famous cat that honors the station with her continual presence and kittens slept and woke and purred and licked her feet and slept again. There was no sound.

The reporter walked on the cell room entrance and threw open the door. A stone corridor extends straight back a distance of 40 feet, and on either side are small cells bound in iron. Midway of the corridor is a large stove. Sitting in a chair next to this stove was a woman -- with her eyes fixed solidly on a cell to her right. As she leaned forward the flickering gaslight revealed a shimmer of grey in her hair and lines on her face that bespoke of hardship and toil.

As the reporter stepped forward to where the woman sat a negro in one of the cells raised himself from his mattress, rubbed his eyes and peered curiously at the woman and then at the visitor. In an opposite cell a white man lay, covered with a heavy quilt. He slept heavily. The woman did not raise her eyes from his face.

"You see, it will be necessary to print something about you and this man," said the reporter, "and I thought you might wish to make some statement. This is J. M. Reid and you were married to him Thursday by 'Squire McAllister, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"And you knew he had a wife living in this county?"

Words came in a dull even monotone.

"Oh, yes. I knew he was married -- knew his wife. But they didn't get along well together and he left her eight years ago. They told me that his being away from her so long was just the same as a divorce. His wife didn't love him. And I love him. And I'm goin' to stick to him." The man slept -- with a drink-flush on his cheek.

"Your own husband?"

"He died four months ago. I have four children, three of them living. Seems to me I've done no harm. His wife don't want him. And I love him. And I'm goin' to stick by him." The man slept on.

"You will sit here in this chair all night?"

"Yes."

"But you will not sleep?"

"Yes, I know."

"The man -- he is sleeping."

"Yes, I know."

The negro in the opposite cell had risen and was sitting on his mattress. With an odd, wondering look he gazed out at the women -- who watched.

The woman is Mrs. Edie Trull, who lives at the corner of Smith and Eleventh streets in this city. The man is J. M. Reid, a well-to-do farmer. He was married in 1887 by Rev. W. O. Cochrane to Miss Mamie Boyles, of this county, and they lived happily on Mr. Reid's farm, near Lodo, until about eight years ago, when a quarrel led to their separation. Mrs. Reid, with her four children, went to live with her brother at Lodo.

After the separation Mr. Reid rented part of his farm to Mr. Trull, and lived at Trull's house. Trull died four months ago and his wife came to Charlotte. Two months ago Reid come to town, taking a room at Mrs. Trull's. He also declares that he thought eight years' separation was equivalent to a divorce.

The case will come up before the recorder this morning.