“Oh, yes!” — a little pompously, after the manner of all Lloyd’s brokers—” no difficulty about the Raglan, you know. Mail ship, new steamer, no risks practically on the Cape route; rather a bad business for you; you’ll lose your premium.”
He shook his head with a show of melancholy, and took a pinch of snuff.
“I have a dream,” said the foreigner hastily, “ver’ bad dream. I have belief in dreams.”
“I daresay,” said the broker indulgently. “A sister of mine used to have ‘em, or said she had; dreamt a tiger bit her, and, sure enough, next day she lost her brooch.” He sat at his desk, signed a receipt, counted some notes, and locked them in his drawer.
“You won’t get your policies for a day or so,” he said; “you’re staying—”
“At the Hotel Belgique,” said the client, and, pocketing his receipts, he rose.
“Good-day,” said the broker, and opened the door.
With a slight bow, his client departed, and reached the street.
There was a taxicab drawn up before the door, and two or three gentlemen standing on the pavement before the office.
“Cab, sir?” said the driver, but the foreigner shook his head.
“I think you had better,” said a voice in French, and a strong hand grasped his arm. Before he realised what had happened, the Frenchman was hustled into the cab, two men jumped in with him, the door banged, and the car whirled westward.
It was a car which had extraordinary privileges, for at a nod from the man who sat by the side of the driver the City police held up the traffic to allow it to pass. It flew down Queen Victoria Street at a much greater speed than is permissible within the City boundaries, and the gloved hands of the policemen on duty at the end of Blackfriars Bridge made a clear way for it.
It turned into Scotland Yard, remained a few minutes, then returned along the Embankment, up Northumberland Avenue, and through a side thoroughfare to Bow Street.
Thereafter, the Frenchman’s experience was bewildering. He was searched, hurried through a passage to a small court, where a benevolent-looking gentleman sat behind a table, on a raised dais.
The prisoner was placed in a steel pen, and a quietly dressed man rose from the solicitors’ table, and made a brief statement.
“We shall charge this man with being a suspected person, your Worship,” he said, “and ask for a remand.”
Then another man went into the witnessbox.
“My name is Detective-Sergeant Kiegnell, of ‘A’ Division,” he said; “and, from information received, I went to 976 Throgmorton Street, where I saw the prisoner. I told him I was a police officer, and should take him into custody.”
That was all.
The magistrate scribbled something on a paper before him, and said briefly, “Remanded.”
Before the prisoner could say a word, or utter anything more than a “Sacré!” he was beckoned from the dock and disappeared from court.
So unimportant was this case that none of the reporters in court troubled to record more than the fact that “a well-dressed man of foreign appearance was charged with loitering with intent.”
Certainly nobody associated his arrest with the announcement that the Raglan Castle had left Cape Town, homeward bound.
It was an interesting voyage for the passengers of the Raglan Castle, which, by the way, carried specie to the amount of £600,000. She left Cape Town soon after dusk. The next morning, to the surprise of her captain, she fell in with a little British fleet — the Doris, the Philomel, and the St. George, flying a Commodore’s flag.
Greatest surprise of all came to the captain of the Raglan Castle when he received the following signal:
“Slow down to thirteen knots, and do not part company.”
To the captain’s “I am carrying the mails,” came the laconic message, “I know.”
For ten days the four ships kept together, then came the sensation of the voyage. At dawn of the tenth day, a big steamer came into view over the horizon. She was in the direct path of the flotilla, and to all appearance she was stationary. Those who were on deck at that early hour heard shrill bugle sounds from the escorting warships, then suddenly the engines of the Raglan stopped, and a crowd of curious passengers came running up from below. The Raglan Castle had obeyed a peremptory order given by the St. George, and was hove-to.
The St. George and Doris went on; then, from the funnels of the stationary steamer, came clouds of smoke, and, through their telescope, the passengers saw her turn slowly and move.
Slowly, slowly she got under way, then —
“Bang!”
The forward 9.2 gun of the St. George emitted a thin straight streak of flame, and there was a strange whining noise in the air.
“Bang! Bang!”
The Doris came into action at the same time as the St. George fired her second gun. Both shots fell short, and the spray of the ricochets leapt up into the air.
The fugitive steamer was now moving at full speed; there was a great fanshaped patch of white water at her stern.
“Bang!”
All this time the two British warships were going ahead, firing as they went. Then, from the stern of the strange steamer, floated a whiff of white smoke, and, in a second, the eerie whine of a shell came to the passengers who crowded the deck of the Raglan Castle. The shell missed the firing warships; indeed, it did not seem to be aimed in their direction, but it fell uncomfortably close to the mail boat. Another shell fell wide of the steamer, but in a line with her. The manoeuvre of the flying vessel was now apparent. She carried heavier metal than the second-class cruisers of the British fleet, but her object was to disable the mail boat.
The captain of the Raglan did not wait for orders; he rung his engines full speed ahead, and swung his helm hard aport. He was going to steam back out of range.
But no further shot came from the Maria Braganza.
Smaller and smaller she grew until only a pall of smoke on the horizon showed where she lay.
Obeying a signal from the distant warship, the Raglan came round again, and in half-an-hour had come abreast of the two warships, the faithful
in attendance.
There was a swift exchange of signals between the warships, and their semaphore arms whirled furiously.
Then the Commodore’s ship signalled:
“Hope you are not alarmed; you will not be troubled again; go ahead.”
On the twelfth day there was another shock for the excited passengers of the Raglan Castle, for, nearing Cape Verde Islands, they came upon not one warship but six — six big black hulls lying at regular intervals along the horizon. But there was no cause for alarm. They were the six Dreadnought cruisers that had been sent down from Gibraltar to take up the burden of the Cape Fleet.
It was all a mystery to the bewildered passengers, whatever it might be to the officers of the Raglan, who had received a long “lamp” message in the middle of the night.
There was a two hours’ delay whilst the captain of the St. George went on board the Indefatigable to report.
This was the end of the adventures that awaited the Raglan. She was escorted to the Needles by the six warships, and came into Southampton, her passengers a-flutter with that excitement peculiar to men who have come through a great danger and are exhilarated to find themselves alive.
The