I began to bluster. I was a British subject
and claimed to be treated with proper respect. I appealed to the
British Consul; I insisted upon seeing him. When they laughed at me,
saying that he would not interfere with the course of justice on
behalf of such an unknown vagabond, I told them roundly that I was
travelling under the special protection of the British Minister for
Foreign Affairs, the illustrious Marquis of Lansdowne. Let them bring
me my wallet. I would show them my passport bearing the Royal Arms and
the signature of one of H.M. Secretaries of State. All of us in the
employ of Messrs. Becke invariably carried Foreign Office passports as
the best credentials we could produce if we were caught in any tight
place.
The greeting of so great a personage to his trusty and well beloved
Ludovic Tiler had a very marked effect upon my captors. It was
enhanced by the sight of a parcel of crisp Bank of England notes lying
snugly in the pocket of the wallet, which I had opened, but without
betraying the secret of the spring. When I extracted a couple of
fivers and handed them to the chief gaoler, begging him to do the best
for my comfort, the situation changed considerably, but no hopes were
held out for my immediate release.
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