“To Scotland Yard.”
“Excuse me, sir; it is no mistake. I’ll go with you, of course, but you will thank me one of those days for being so prompt. You have been imposed upon by one of the cleverest scoundrels of his time. James Dale is—”
“Mr James Barron, man.”
“No, Sir Mark; James Dale, charged with swindling the Russian government of a tremendous sum by the issuing of forged rouble notes.”
“What?”
“And just off to Buenos Ayres.”
“To the West Indies, man—to his estate.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man dryly; “he’s going to his estate, but it isn’t there.”
Sir Mark looked wildly round at the crowd of friends who were drawing away, and without another word accompanied the officer to the carriage, where, as soon as they were started, the latter addressed himself to Guest, the admiral having sunk back in one corner, trying to collect his thoughts, but only to begin listening intently.
“No mistake, sir,” said the officer. “I wish for the gentleman’s sake there was. The prisoner has been carrying on the game for a long time with a copper-plate printer, a man named Henderson—Samuel Henderson. We took him an hour ago, and it was through a letter we found in his pocket that we knew what was going on here, and arrived just in time for the young lady.”