Chapter XLII: An Additional Passenger

The grip on collar and arm did not relax.

“I’ll teach you to hit me!” breathed the officer.

“It was an accident, you fool!” stormed Bill, making the situation worse. “Take that man--he’s Laffin, I tell you. They’ll have the coat off your back if you let him escape!”

“Never mind about Laffin; I’ve heard that fairy tale before,” said the policeman, as he walked briskly, Bill’s arm in his, past the sentry at St. James’s Palace.

There was nothing to do but to submit, and Bill Holbrook found himself thrust into a steel pen, answering the conventional questions of the station sergeant. When they had been put:

“I want you to communicate with Inspector Bullott,” said Bill, giving the address. “He’s a personal friend of mine. I tell you, the man that this officer allowed to escape was Joshua Laffin, who is wanted on a charge of murder.”

The sergeant looked across his spectacles.

“Is that so?” he said, with polite sarcasm. “And is there anybody else you’d like to communicate with? The King or anybody?”

“Do you mind telephoning my newspaper?” said Bill, who knew that it would be a waste of time trying to match his wits with the officer. “Perhaps you’ll not be so comic to-morrow morning.”

A claim of association with a newspaper was more effective than his statement that he was a friend of Bullott. But, by extraordinary bad luck, there was no member of the night staff who knew him. The City Editor had gone home, and the men on duty were strangers to him; and when he had at last persuaded the sergeant to communicate with Bullott, it was to discover that that officer also was not at home.

He spent the night in a police cell, and at ten o’clock the next morning was brought before the magistrate charged with disorderly conduct and striking Police Constable Higgins in the execution of his duty. It was so ludicrous, so amazingly grotesque an experience, that he did not know whether to laugh or cry when the magistrate inflicted a small fine, and he almost ran out of the court.

A taxi took him to his lodgings, and he found the inspector’s housekeeper scrubbing the front passage.

“Mr. Bullott, sir? Didn’t you know that he was leaving?”

“Leaving--for where?”

“For America, sir, he went this morning.”

“Is it Saturday?” said Bill in horror.

“Of course it is, sir.” She looked at him suspiciously; she had never before seen this untidy young man under the influence of drink. “Mr. Bullott was very worried about your not coming home last night; he wanted to see you and left a note in your room.”

“That’s all right, I was locked up,” said Bill recklessly, and dashed up the stairs to find the letter.

It was a very short note, but significant.

“If it is humanly possible for you to join the _Escorial_, do so. Something very queer is happening.”

That was all--it was a message without introduction, date or signature, scribbled hastily in pencil. Did Bullott know about the Treasury official’s indiscretion? Did he realise that the _Escorial_ was carrying fifty million dollars in paper currency to New York? Bill’s head was in a whirl. He sat down and tried hard to think consecutively. The thought uppermost in his mind was that some extraordinary danger threatened Betty Carew.

He looked at his watch; it was eleven o’clock. On Saturday there would be nobody in the office, but he knew where to find the editor, and in a few minutes was on the ’phone to him, telling him what he had learnt on the previous night. The editor made a quick decision.

“I’ll fix the police,” he said. “Go along to the American Consul, explain the position to him, and get your passport visaed. I’ll have reservations made for you on the ship by wireless. What time does the _Escorial_ sail?”

“At midday; it will leave in an hour,” said Bill.

“I’ll hire a car to take you to Southampton,” came the instructions, “and will wire the seaplane company to have a machine waiting to carry you to Cherbourg. Fly over to France and pick up the _Escorial_; she’ll not leave Cherbourg before six o’clock to-night. Have you got any money?”

“No, sir,” said Bill promptly.

“Very good, I’ll send my butler along with the car and the cash; he’ll meet you outside the Consulate.”

The Consulate was closing when he arrived. The Consul, indeed, had already taken his departure, and it seemed impossible that the all-important visa could be obtained. Nevertheless, visa or no visa, Bill Holbrook was determined that he would make the trip. The most they could do would be to turn him back from New York, and he thought he had influences sufficiently strong in that city to find his way into his native land without making acquaintance with Ellis Island. Happily, this unsatisfactory course was not necessary, for, after a telephone consultation with his chief, the Assistant Consul was able to stamp his passport, and by the time this business was through, and Bill had emerged on to Bedford Square, he found the editor’s servant waiting with a roll of money. And at the sidewalk was the car that the editor had hired.

At half-past three that afternoon he arrived at Southampton, to learn that the _Escorial_ had sailed promptly at midday, and would arrive at Cherbourg at six o’clock that night. It took him a longer time than he supposed to find the headquarters of the seaplane company, and it was nearly five before, with a thundering roar of her tractors, the little plane rose steeply from the water, and, mounting higher and higher, headed for Cherbourg. Midway the engine began to misfire, and the pilot was forced to bring her down on to the water, which fortunately was smooth. Another half-hour was wasted whilst he corrected the error which had led to the forced landing.

Bill was in that agony of fear and anger which is only experienced by those who find themselves held up when they are late for an appointment. But at last the repairs were completed and the seaplane buzzed up again, and as his watch pointed to half-past seven they sighted the French coast and presently the huge bulk of the _Escorial_.

Even as the ship came into sight, he saw a white feather of steam shoot out from her siren, and knew that she was signalling her departure. Down swept the plane, coming to rest within a fathom of the high hull, just as the gangway was being pulled up from the tender.

Bill signalled frantically, and, at the imminent risk of his life, walked the somewhat precarious foothold of the seaplane’s float, and, barely managing to reach the bulwarks of the tender, swung himself aboard. The gangway was up, but he was evidently expected, for a pilot ladder was dropped immediately, and, clinging desperately to the rope, he reached one of the lower decks and was hauled on board.

It was not until then that he realised that he had left his bag on the seaplane, but somehow this did not worry him greatly. Within a few yards of him was, as he knew, Betty Carew, and that was compensation enough.