Chapter Fourteen.
Stratton’s Thanksgiving.
There was a slight struggle, the sharp click of steel, and before Sir Mark could find words to express his rage and astonishment, Barron was being hurried out of the hall by two of the men who had made the unceremonious entry, while the two policemen there for another purpose, in answer to some freemasonry of the force, opened the cab door, and saw the vehicle driven off.
Sir Mark had meantime made an effort to follow, but the man who had spoken barred his way.
“You scoundrel! Who are you?” roared the admiral. “What does this mean?”
“Superintendent Abingdon, Great Scotland Yard, sir,” was the quiet reply. “It means, sir, that I’ve saved the young lady from a painful scene, and you from a terrible mishap.”
“But, oh, there is some horrible blunder! That is my friend, my son-in-law, Mr Barron.”
“No, sir, an alias. James Dale, whom we have wanted for months. Dodged us by keeping abroad. Couldn’t run him to earth before—stayed on the Continent; and he was off abroad again, but we were just in time.”
“I tell you,” thundered Sir Mark, “it is a horrible mistake. Here, Guest—the carriage: we must follow them at once. Ladies, some of you—oh, here is my sister. Rebecca, go up to Myra and keep her in her room. A little mistake; Barron has been called away—a business mistake. Tell her to be calm. Now, sir,” he cried sternly to the officer, “you do not leave my side. Mr Guest, come with us.”
“Where to, Sir Mark?” said the man quietly.