On the hurricane-deck of the Campania, as the leviathan liner thrust her huge bulk towards the landing-stage through the lesser fry of the teeming Mersey traffic, a big man, wearing a light-gray frock-coat and a broad-brimmed soft white hat, stood talking to the purser. Senator Leonidas Sherman was accounted the handsomest man at Washington, and in his broad, well-chiseled, clean-shaven face was reflected that honesty and shrewd alertness which had caused his selection for his present trust.
"I don't want the box out before the last moment, Mr. Seaton, and if you can conveniently keep the bullion-room locked till you hand it over I should be obliged," the Senator was saying.
The brass-buttoned official gave a ready assent to the distinguished passenger's request.
"I'd rather you had your job than me, sir," he added, seriously. "The equivalent of three million sterling in a little leather thing like that, and to have to cart it up to London all by your lone self—why, it's enough to make one shudder."
"It doesn't me," the Senator replied simply, with an unconscious gesture to his hip-pocket. "I have a bit of a reputation to live up to, you know. If it's to be shooting, my early training has taught me to draw first; and if it's to be confidence-men—well, it's some years since I was born."
The purser nodded and went about his duties while Sherman leaned over the forward rail and watched the shore, looming larger now every moment. The Senator was no back-woods "hayseed." A man of culture and much travel, he possessed far more than a guide-book knowledge of every European capital, and did not make the mistake of under-estimating London as a hatching-ground for crime. Till his precious charge was deposited in the Bank of England and he had fingered the receipt he was prepared for emergencies. The gold shipment which his Government had negotiated against the bonds he was bringing had been buzzed about in Wall Street for two months and more—ample time for the maturing of predatory schemes.
Aided by the company's tug, the great steamer sidled up to the landing-stage, and as soon as the gangways were opened the usual stream of passengers' friends began to push their way on board. The hurricane-deck towered high above the level of the quay, and Senator Sherman, not expecting anyone to meet him, retained his post of vantage at the rail, looking down with amused interest at the embracings and hand-shakings. He had no need to hurry, for it was too late to catch a train to London in time to reach the Bank before it closed for the day, and he preferred to let the ship clear before he claimed the box of bonds from the purser.
Suddenly he heard his name spoken inquiringly at his elbow, and wheeling smartly round he found himself looking into the harassed eyes of a well-dressed man whom he had seen, a few minutes before, pass on board from the landing-stage. He had specially noticed him from a limp which impeded his progress across the crowded gangway.
"Yes, my name is Sherman, but I haven't the pleasure of knowing yours," said the Senator shortly. There was a diffident air about this tired-looking individual—a something that might be shyness or might be guile—that put him on his guard. Could it be that one of the "confidence-men," about whom he had just spoken so lightly, was going to practise on him ere even the securities were out of the purser's custody? He wondered what tale would be unfolded for his entrapment.
"I am the Duke of Beaumanoir," the stranger replied, after a nervous glance round. "I don't suppose you ever heard of me. There wouldn't have been time for a letter from your people to reach you from this side before you sailed."