were fixed on the open door leading to the hall, when an eager,
resolute-faced man, evidently an American, stepped with a firm pace into
the room, followed by a dozen civilians and soldiers. With a quick
glance over the company his eyes rested on me, and coming direct to my
chair, while my guests gazed in amazement, he bowed and said in a low
voice: "Mr. Bidwell, I am sorry to disturb your dinner party or to annoy
you in any way, but I am forced to tell you I have a warrant in my
pocket for your arrest upon a charge of forgery upon the Bank of
England. The warrant is signed by the Captain-General of Cuba,
everything is in due form, and you are my prisoner. I am William
Pinkerton."

[Illustration: BENEATH OLD BAILEY COURT ROOM--COURT ADJOURNED FOR
LUNCH.]

Every man who enters the arena and joins in the struggle of life has
more or fewer takedowns in his history. But my wish is that between
this hour and my last I may have no more takedowns so near the freezing
point as this was. I shall never forget the look on my wife's face.
First she gazed at the intruders with indignation, then turned to me
with a look of eager expectation, as much as to say: "Wait till my
husband raises his arm and you will all go down." But instead of seeing
me rise, indignant and angry, driving the intruders out, she saw me
talking quite calmly to Curtin. Then her face grew deadly white. None of
the guests heard Pinkerton's words, but, as will be easily imagined,
there was a painful silence, which I broke by standing up and saying
that there was some unhappy mistake, that I was arrested upon the charge
of furnishing arms to the insurrectionists in the eastern provinces. I
requested my friends to withdraw at once, and everything would be
explained on the morrow.

[Illustration: TRANSFERRED FROM DARTMOOR TO WOKING PRISON]

There were five soldiers present, Mr. Crawford, the English
Consul-General, Pinkerton and Captain John Curtin, my servant Nunn being
in custody of the latter. It was a strange and unhappy scene, and every
one felt extremely awkward and ill at ease, especially the writer. In
the rear of the dining room was a large sitting room, where I kept my
valuables in trunks and did my writing. I turned to Mr. P., and said:
"Will you come in the other room?" "Certainly," he replied, without the
slightest hesitation. The room was brilliantly lighted. Motioning him to
a seat, I said:

"Will you have a glass of wine?"

"Yes, but I never