“Out here it may be,” said the officer, “but in New York it’s Albert S. Warner. I have a warrant for your arrest in connection with the Conway kidnapping. You’ll have to come.” The farm hand was taken to the house, permitted to change his clothes, and loaded upon the next eastbound train. When he reached Kansas City he refused to go farther without extradition formalities. After the officers had telegraphed to New York, the man changed his mind again and proceeded voluntarily back to Albany, where he was placed in jail and soon brought to trial. He was sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment, the maximum penalty, as the leader of the kidnappers. The captor of Warner had been Detective McCann of the Albany police force. He had trailed the man about five thousand miles, partly on false scents. In his wanderings he had gone to Georgia, Tennessee, Minnesota, New Mexico, Missouri, and finally to Kansas, where he had satisfied himself that Warner was working on the Goodrich farm. McCann had then called a Pinkerton detective to his aid from the nearest office and made the arrest as already described. The truth about the Conway kidnapping case seems to have been that Hardy, the boy’s uncle by marriage, had been scheming for some time to get a thousand dollars out of his brother-in-law. He had confided his ideas to Blake, his chum. Blake had suggested the inclusion of his friend, Warner, whom he rated a smart lawyer and clever schemer. Warner had then acted as organizer and leader, with what success the reader will judge. V THE LOST HEIR OF TICHBORNE On the afternoon of the twentieth of April, 1854, the schooner _Bella_ cast off her moorings at the Gamboa wharves in Rio, worked her way down the bay, and stood out to sea, bound for her home port, New York. She was partly in ballast, because of slack commerce, and carried a single passenger. About the name and fate of this solitary voyager grew up a strange mystery and a stranger history. When the last glint of the _Bella’s_ sails was seen from Rio’s island anchorages, that vessel passed forever out of worldly cognizance. She never reached any port save the ultimate, and of those that rode in her, nothing came back but rumor and doubt. Her end and theirs was veiled in a storm and hidden among unknown waters. The epitaph was written at Lloyd’s in the familiar syllables: “Foundered with all hands.”