As Mr. Aaron Woodwind uttered the name, all the color forsook his face.

“Yes, sir.  And he claimed to know you,” I went on, my curiosity amused over the merchant’s show of feeling.

“It’s a falsehood!  I never heard of such a man,” cried Mr. Woodward, but his face belied his words.

“Well, what is your charge against Strong?” asked Judge Penfold, impatiently, probably tired of being so utterly ignored in the discussion.

The merchant hesitated.

“I prefer to speak to you about the matter in private,” he said sourly.

“That isn’t fair.  He ought to tell me what I am accused of,” I cried, “Every one who is arrested has a right to know that.  I have done no wrong and I am not afraid.”

“All assumed bravery, Judge Penfold; quite assumed, sir.”

“No, sir.  Tell me why you want me locked up,” I repeated.

But instead of replying Mr. Woodward drew Judge Penfold to the rear end of the hall and began to speak in so low a tone that I could not catch a word.

“You don’t mean it!” I heard the judge say presently.  “Come into the library and give me the particulars.”

The two men passed into the room, closing the door tightly behind them.  They were gone nearly quarter of an hour—­ a long wait for me.  I wondered what could be the nature of Mr. Woodward’s accusation against me, but failed to solve the mystery.

At length they came out.  Judge Penfold’s face was a trifle sterner than before.  Mr. Woodward looked pleased, as if his argument had proven conclusive.

“You will take Strong to the jail at once,” said the judge to Parsons “and tell Booth to be careful of his prisoner.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t let him escape,” added Aaron Woodward, anxiously.  “Don’t let him escape, sir, under any circumstances.”

“No fear,” was Parsons’s ready answer.  “I never had one of ’em give me the slip yet.”

And with great gravity he drew from his pocket a pair of ancient handcuffs, one of which he attached to my wrist and the other to his own.

“Come, Roger.  Better take it easy,” he said.  “No use of kicking.  March!”

“But I’d like to know something about this,” I protested.  “What right—­”

“It is all quite legal,” put in Judge Penfold, pompously.  “I understand the law perfectly.”

“But—­”

“Say no more.  Parsons, take him away.”

“I shall see you later,” whispered Mr. Woodward in my ear as the constable hurried me off.

The next instant we were on the street.  Arrests in Darbyville were rare, and by the time we reached the jail we had a goodly following of boys and idle men, all anxious to know what was up.

“He stole the Widow Canby’s money,” I heard one man whisper, to which another replied:—­

“Light fingered, eh?  Must take after his father.  I always knew the Strongs couldn’t be trusted.”