“Of all the monstrous indignities,” shouted Dick. “I'm a newspaper correspondent on a special detail. I'll wire the American minister in Madrid, and the English Ambassador too. I'll—”
But the gentleman in the grey coat had obeyed the sergeant. He had also taken off his goggles.
“It will be all right in a few hours, or a few days,” said he in English. “You must go on. Don't worry about me.”
“Go on without you?” echoed Dick, breaking again into astonishing Spanish for the benefit of the official. “Well, if you really don't mind, as I'm in the dickens of a hurry. You can follow by train, you know, as soon as you've proved to these blunderers that you're George Smith.”
“If you are Señor George Smith, you will be free as soon as the photograph of the Marqués de Casa Triana has been sent on by the police at Madrid,” said the sergeant. “If not—” he did not finish his sentence; but the break was significant. And the soldiers closed in to separate the alleged George Smith from his companions of the car, lest at the last moment they should attempt a rescue.
“We'll make them sorry for this, George,” said Dick. “But as we really can't do much for you here, we'll get on somewhere else, where we can.”
“I must ask also for the name of the owner of this automobile, and for that of his chauffeur,” insisted the sergeant, “before I can let you go.”
[pg 049] “Oh, all right,” said Dick, crossly, producing his passport, and cards with the names of the papers for which he had engaged to correspond. “Ropes, fork out your credentials.”
The chauffeur brought forth his French papers, and pointed to the name of Peter Ropes. The sergeant industriously wrote down everything in his note-book, a greasy and forbidding one.
“It is satisfactory,” he said with dignity; “you can proceed, señores.”