others. He struck his hand on Jennison's shoulder.
"Mr. Winthrop Jennison? I arrest you, sir," he said, sharply.
"Arrest me?" demanded Jennison, as white as his collar. "Arrest me?"
Mr. Banger stood with his mouth open, most unmannerly,
"Yes," retorted the red-haired man; "here's the writ—'Winthrop Jennison, otherwise called John A. Belmont, otherwise called Murray Nicoll, otherwise called Gray Hurd. Forgery in Boston. You know, I guess. The others in it have all been looked after. No trouble, please. Billy!"
What did Mr. Jennison-Belmont-Nicoll-Hurd do? He held out his wrists mechanically. They were suitably embellished. Then he turned to Mr. Banger, Gerald, and Touchtone. His look, as much as his odd words (which were the beginning of that day's memorable disconcertment of the luckless proprietor of the Kossuth House), showed that he knew thoroughly that the "double life" and the relics of such local respect as was left in this place, near the house of his ancestors, were forever shattered.
