While Stebbins looked on I signed my name to these words, and soon they were being clicked to their destination. Stebbins’s little eyes were wide open with astonishment and confusion. Presently he asked: “Is this here biznuss a durned bluff, George?” “We’ll let the district attorney be the judge of that, sheriff,” was my bland reply. “Come--let’s go to the dining-room.” In the meantime I had sent a messenger boy round town to look up Judge Cushion, my senior counsel in the New Hampshire trial. I wanted him near in case of an emergency. He arrived about the time we finished our meal. He sat with us, and I told him of the fate of the indictments. It was news to him, and I received his warm congratulations with satisfaction. Then I told him of the arrest and of the message I’d sent to District Attorney Lane. He smiled significantly. While telling the judge all this, I took no little delight in watching the various changes which appeared on the sheriff’s face. After waiting an hour, I wrote another message, similar to the first, and sent it to Lane. Another hour passed and still no reply from either. In the meanwhile Sheriff Stebbins was getting more and more nonplussed and uneasy. I wired to the telegraph operator at Keene to know if my messages had been delivered to District Attorney Lane. I showed Stebbins the answer:-- “Both messages were delivered, personally, to F. F. Lane.” Stebbins was absolutely worried. He had serious doubts that he’d made a smart move in arresting me. Finally, he opened up, with much confusion of speech, a discussion with Judge Cushion. “What ’u’d ye advise me tew dew, jedge?” he asked anxiously. I secretly enjoyed his discomfiture. “Well,” said Cushion, “you can hold Mr. White for twenty-four hours, but let me tell you, if District Attorney Lane doesn’t want him, you’ll be in a pretty pickle. It will be a clean case of lawsuit, and you’ll be the defendant without a leg to hobble on. In view of Mr. White’s statement, I can’t see any other outcome. It seems that you’ve arrested him without proper authority.” “B’ gummany Christmus!” ejaculated the sheriff, wiping his perspiring face with a much-soiled handkerchief. “I hev cut a mus’ melon, an’ no mistake! What’ll I dew, jedge, anyhow? Ef ye wuz in my place, what ’u’d ye dew?” “I prefer not to advise you, sheriff, but if, as you say, I had gotten myself in your predicament, I’d confess I’d made a big mistake an’ tell the prisoner to go his way in peace, as quick as he wanted to.” Sheriff Stebbins jumped at this solution of his troubles, like a startled rabbit to cover. I was set free, but I didn’t leave until I had made the sheriff very contrite and fully understand that he had seriously interfered with my lawful rights. Bidding farewell to Judge Cushion, I was about to go, when Stebbins said I’d not be able to get out of Charlestown that night, the last train having gone.