The sergeant thought it was the same fellow back, and he got up angrily. The door was flung open and in dashed another man, even more aristocratic in bearing than the other.
“My name is Mr. Stickhey,” said he, gravely, “and I’ve come——”
“I suppose you want to raise a rumpus about that confounded Chauncey, too!” cried the sergeant, getting red to the ends of his whiskers.
“W-why! What’s this?” gasped the astonished millionaire.
“And I suppose you want me to let him go, don’t you?”
“W-why!” gasped the astonished millionaire again. “What——”
“Well, if you do you might as well understand that I don’t mean to do it. And you needn’t be wasting any breath about it either. I’ve stood about all of this I mean to stand from anybody. I don’t set my prisoners loose for the devil himself, and I won’t for you. Now then!”
It would be difficult to describe the look of amazement that was on the dignified Mr. Stickhey’s face. He stared, and then he started again.
“Why, officer!” said he. “I’m sure——”
“So’m I!” vowed the sergeant. “Dead sure! And all your talk won’t change the fact, either, that Peter Smith, or Chauncey, or whoever he is, stays where he is till morning. And the sooner you realize it the better.”