“God bless my soul, you mustn’t dream of it! Langside will be turned out at the next election; John Brooks will go in, and he’s the man to steer this old country through. No, no! and if young Oliphant blabs a word of it to his father, I’ll—I’ll——Yes, my love”—as Mrs. Greatorex entered—“we were talking about our new neighbour, Lord Langside. It appears that his son and daughter have come down.”
“Oh, John, do you think I should call?”
“On no account, my dear. I hate Langside’s politics, and we’ll have nothing to do with them. Now, Tom, give Mrs. Greatorex your arm.”
CHAPTER IV—A PRISONER IN ZEMMUR
A few mornings after the meeting with Raymond Oliphant, Tom, coming down to breakfast, found Mr. Greatorex in a state of high excitability, with the Times outspread before him.
“What did I say, Tom!” he shouted. “Didn’t I tell you the Country was going to the dogs! What do you think of this, now?”
He read out a short paragraph—
“Information has just reached the Foreign Office that Sir Mark Ingleton, who recently left London on a diplomatic mission to Morocco, has been captured by tribesmen and carried off to the hills. Strong pressure is being brought to bear on the Sultan to take steps against the offenders; but if, as is feared, Sir Mark Ingleton’s captor is the notorious rebel whose headquarters are at Zemmur, there is little hope of the Sultan in his present state of impotence being able to make his authority felt.”
“That’s what has happened to a servant of the British Crown under Langside’s administration;” said Mr. Greatorex hotly. “Strong pressure, indeed! It wants a fleet, an expedition, a few quick-firers and Long Toms.”
“But wouldn’t that make a blaze?” said Tom quietly. “In the present state of affairs it might give rise to no end of complications in Europe, too.”