“Are these two men occupied in the preparations for their intended modification of the terrestrial axis?” “That,” said J. T. Maston, “is part of the secret with which I am entrusted, and I refuse to say.” Would he submit his calculations to the Commission, that they might judge if the project of the Association could be accomplished? “No, certainly not!” said J. T. Maston. “It is my right as a free American citizen to keep from anybody the result of my work!” “But if that is your right, Mr. Maston,” said President Prestice solemnly, as if he spoke in the name of the entire world, “it may be your duty to speak in face of the anxiety that exists.” J. T. Maston did not think it was his duty. He had only one duty—to keep silent; and he would keep silent. In spite of their persistence, their supplications, their threats, the members of the Commission of Inquiry could get nothing out of the man with the iron hook. Never would they have believed that so much obstinacy lurked within a gutta-percha cranium! J. T. Maston left as he had arrived, and that he was congratulated on his valiant defence by Mrs. Scorbitt we need hardly say. When the result of J. T. Maston’s appearance was made known, public opinion took a form that was really serious for his safety. The pressure on the Government became so great that Secretary John S. Wright had to obtain permission from the President to act _manu militari_. On the evening of the 13th of March, J. T. Maston was in his workroom at Ballistic Cottage, absorbed in his algebra, when the bell of the telephone tinkled nervously. “Hallo, there! Hallo, there!” murmured the instrument in a way that showed great anxiety. “Who’s there?” asked J. T. Maston. “Mrs. Scorbitt.” “What is it?” “Be on your guard! I have just heard that this very night—” The sentence had not been finished when the door of Ballistic Cottage was burst open by a push from several shoulders, and up the staircase came an extraordinary tumult. There was a voice protesting; then other voices silencing it; then a bump as of a fallen body—bump, bump—it was the negro, Fire-Fire, rolling downstairs after an unavailing defence of his master’s home—bump, bump; the door of the workroom flew open; policemen rushed in; the excitable Maston seized a revolver; instantly he was disarmed; a policeman laid his hand on the papers on the desk; Maston slipped free and dashed at a note-book; the police were after him; before they could reach him he had torn out the last leaf, clapped it to his mouth, and gulped it down as if it had been a pill! “Now!” said he in the tone of a Leonidas at Thermopylæ. “_Now_ you can do your duty.” An hour afterwards he was in the gaol at Baltimore. And that was probably the best thing that could have happened to him, for the populace were in such a state of excitement that the police might have found themselves powerless to protect him.