"Is your name William Wotherspoon?" abruptly and sternly inquired one of the strangers.
"It is, sir," replied the former.
"Humph!" ejaculated the querist, and began searching his pocket, from which he drew a slip of paper. Then again addressing Wotherspoon—
"Mr Wotherspoon, you are our prisoner. We apprehend you in the king's name, and you must immediately accompany us to Edinburgh."
"Your prisoner, gentlemen!" said Mr Wotherspoon, becoming as pale as death, and trembling violently as he spoke, "What for? What crime have I committed? What do you charge me with?"
"Ah! you don't know, I suppose, and can't guess," said one of the messengers, sneeringly; for such, indeed, was the character of the strangers.
"No, indeed, gentlemen, I cannot," said Mr Wotherspoon, in a state of great agitation.
"Very like a mouse-trap, but not so small," exclaimed the messenger. "However, I always like to be civil, and I shall tell you—though I'm confoundedly mistaken, if you don't know it pretty well already. You are apprehended, Mr Wotherspoon," he continued (and now eyeing his prisoner—for in such, a melancholy situation the unfortunate man now stood—with a scrutinising glance), "on a charge of forgery; so, if you please, we'll bundle and go."
In following out this extraordinary conversation, we have necessarily lost sight for a moment of Mrs Wotherspoon. But we do not now call the reader's notice to her with any intention of describing the effects which the appalling occurrence just recorded had at first upon her. This we think it better to leave to the reader's imagination. But her subsequent conduct is more within the power of description.
The unfortunate woman, having hastily laid down the smiling, unconscious innocent that was in her arms when the messengers entered the shop, flung herself upon her husband's neck, and frantically exclaimed that no one should tear her William from her.