"What?" cried Mark.
"You are my prisoner, sir," repeated the stranger, making a sign to another man to come closer.
Mark howled and kicked, and for a moment actually fought with his assailants. It was of course a senseless thing to do; but the shock was so sudden. He had felt himself as secure, stepping on those shores, as any grand foreign ambassador could have felt; and now to find himself treacherously pounced upon in this way was beyond everything bitter. No wonder that for the minute Mark was mad.
"It can't be!" he shrieked; "you have no warrant for this. I am free as air; they wrote me word I was."
"Would you like a cab, sir?" inquired the official civilly, but not deigning to answer. "You can have one if you like. Call one, Jim."
A cab was called; the prisoner was helped into it and driven away--he was too bewildered to know where.
And that's how Mr. Mark Cray was welcomed to London. His rage was great, his sense of injury dreadful.
"Only let me come across Barker!" he foamed. "He shall suffer for this. A man ought to be hung for such treachery."
Mark Cray was, so far, mistaken. Barker was as innocent in the arrest as he was. An accident had prevented his going down to meet the Havre steamer.