While we were dining, a Buffalo train pulled in and out again, taking with it Bob Watts, the disconsolate one, and his followers. He realized at last that the game was played; that he’d held the right bower, forgetful of the fact that sometimes there is a joker in the pack. Our train came along presently, and Sheriff Smith handed Frank Houghtaling the New York warrant, and we were off. The handcuffs were on our wrists and the shackles on our ankles as we clanked along to seats selected for us by Houghtaling. Naturally we attracted much attention and comment and drew not a few questions from the passengers. An extremely inquisitive man wasn’t satisfied until he had asked Frank to tell him what crime was charged against us. “A very serious offence,” solemnly proclaimed our captor. “Indeed, sir, they are accused of a very grave crime.” “My sakes! What?” he questioned, in a voice that sounded hollow. “You don’t mean murder?” Houghtaling nodded his head in the affirmative, and looked extremely wise. While we, in a measure, enjoyed the situation, having the knowledge that we were out of a predicament which held great danger for us, still the irons were not to our liking, even under the conditions; so we asked Frank if it wasn’t about time to liberate us. “Wait until we’ve passed the next station,” he advised. Half an hour later the irons were removed and stowed away in Houghtaling’s satchel. The handcuffs he brought with him, but the shackles belonged to Sheriff Smith. We were to send them to him by express. A little later Shinburn and I were strolling about the car, and once we visited the smoker. Of course this brought a lot of questions from the passengers, the most curious ones wanting to know what it all meant. To see a pair of desperate murderers thus roaming at will, seemed, to a few timid ones, like flying in the face of Providence. At last Houghtaling set these meddlesome people at rest by saying: “I received a telegram at the last station, informing me that I’d arrested the wrong men, and that I must at once release them. While I believe them to be guilty, I must obey my superiors. However, I am going to keep an eye on them.” We reached New York in fine spirits, and Houghtaling immediately arraigned us before Judge Russell in the latter’s private office. Peter Mitchell, subsequently a civil justice, represented us, and upon his statement to the judge that the warrant upon which we had been apprehended, though charging many grave offences, really had no basis for issue except that growing out of an ordinary family quarrel, we were released on a nominal bail. The worst that could befall us under this action was a civil trial. But we knew that the case was as good as ended. Detective Bob Watts, with his fake warrant, had been defeated. He might now whistle for his reward from New Hampshire.