"Can't be done," said the detective. "Wardlaw has nothing to do with it.
The bill is stopped. You are arrested by the gent that cashed it. Here is
the warrant; will you go quietly with us, or must I put the darbies on?"

Robert was violently agitated. "There is no need to arrest me," he cried;
"I shall not run from my accuser. Hands off, I say. I'm a clergyman of
the Church of England, and you shall not lay hands on me."

But one of the policemen did lay hands on him. Then the Reverend Robert
Penfold shook him furiously off, and, with one active bound, sprang into
the middle of the road.

The officers went at him incautiously, and the head detective, as he
rushed forward, received a heavy blow on the neck and jaw that sounded
along the street, and sent him rolling in the mud; this was followed by a
quick succession of staggering facers, administered right and left on the
eyes and noses of the subordinates. These, however, though bruised and
bleeding, succeeded at last in grappling their man, and all came to the
ground together, and there struggled furiously; every window in the
street was open by this time, and at one the white hair and reverend face
of Michael Penfold looked out on this desperate and unseemly struggle
with hands that beat the air in helpless agony and inarticulate cries of
terror.

The detective got up and sat upon Robert Penfold's chest; and at last the
three forced the handcuffs upon him and took him in a cab to the
station-house.

Next day, before the magistrate, Wardlaw senior proved the note was a
forgery, and Mr. Adams's partner swore to the prisoner as the person who