“I like your language,” beamingly quoth Johnny Kent. “We’re about due to have a little violence, Cap’n Mike.”
While the good ship Tarlington swings about and retraces her course there is time to discover what befell the genuine Osmond I after he entered a carriage at the Hotel Carleton and set out to join Captain O’Shea’s steamer.
He was rapidly driven to the East India Docks and the carriage drew up alongside the Tyneshire Glen. The royal occupant had been informed by Captain O’Shea that the ship would be out of the docks by now and a tug waiting to transfer him. In the darkness the shadowy outline of one steamer looked very like another, and King Osmond thought that perhaps the plan of sailing might have been changed at the last moment.
The cabman strenuously assured him that this was the Tarlington, and he decided that he had better go aboard and look for Captain O’Shea. If a mistake had been made, it should be an easy matter to find the landing-pier and the waiting tug.
No sooner had the king reached the deck than he was convinced that he had been directed to the wrong steamer. The people who stared at him were utter strangers. There was not a subject of Trinadaro among them, nor did any of the officers of the ship step forward to greet him. He was about to accost the nearest spectator when an officious man dressed in seedy black confronted him, flourished a formidable-appearing document under the royal nose, and pompously affirmed:
“A writ from the judge duly appointed and authorized by the Lord Chancellor to take cognizance of such cases, distraining Colonel Osmond George Sydenham-Leach from attempting to quit the jurisdiction of said court pending an inquisition de lunatico inquirendo. Take it calm and easy, sir. This won’t interfere with your liberty as long as you obey the writ.”
Another minion of the law, a fat man with a well-oiled voice, thereupon formally took possession of the steamer, explaining that because clearance papers had been issued for a voyage to Trinadaro, the court held that a departure from England was actually and speedily contemplated. The presence of Colonel Sydenham-Leach on board in person was also evidence after the fact.
The blow was staggering, humiliating, incredibly painful. It shook the amiable gentleman’s presence of mind to the very foundations. To be interfered with as an alleged madman was enough to bewilder the most sapient monarch that ever wielded sceptre. As a landed proprietor, a retired officer of the militia, a Conservative in politics, King Osmond had profound respect for the law and the constitution of his native land. He was not one to defy a judicial writ or to grapple with the situation in a high-handed manner. In other words, he was rather Colonel Sydenham-Leach in this cruel crisis than the sovereign ruler of the independent principality of Trinadaro.
No help or comfort was to be obtained from the company around him. These spurious voyagers from the employment agency were whispering uneasily among themselves and regarding the unfortunate Osmond with suspicious glances. They had not bargained to entangle themselves in the affairs of an alleged lunatic on board of a ship which had been seized in the name of the law. Ten shillings was not enough for this sort of thing.
“It don’t look right to me,” said one of them. “The job is on the queer. I say we hook it before the bloomin’ bobbies come and put the lot of us in jail.”