One of the seamen led the way to the saloon, and in a few moments the complement of passengers was completed. The rattle of the movable gangway was heard, as the men upon the pier withdrew it; then, as the paddle wheels slowly began to revolve, the taut ropes strained and throbbed ere they were thrown loose. The doors of the saloon were closed. “Prisoners for the first time in our lives. They’ve turned the tables!” ventured Mr Justice Barling, but no one took any notice of the joke. The sway of the steamer and churning of the water told them that she was clear of the landing stage. But presently looks of inquiry and surprise were exchanged amongst the passengers. “By Jove! Westwood,” said one of them, “they’ve put the boat about!” Sir John Westwood rushed to the doors of the saloon and tried to open them. The doors were locked and barred. “Great Scott! we’re heading for London Bridge!” exclaimed some one else. “What does it mean?” They made a dash to the portholes and tried to open them; but they were fixed and firm. The clang of a well-known signal from bridge to engine-room reached their ears. “_That_ means ’full speed ahead!’” said the last speaker; and they stood aghast and helpless as the _John Milton_ raced down the river towards the open sea. * * * * * At his window, overlooking the Embankment, Marcus White was watching. A grim smile played across his features as the lights of the steamer rushed eastward, and soon were lost to view in the black and bitter night. CHAPTER XXVII THE BLACK CHRISTMAS The elements ignore, and thus subdue, the rage of men. Wind alone would not have cleared the streets, but wind and snow together drove loiterers and roisterers alike to shelter. And in the midst of the snowstorm Henshaw’s prediction was fulfilled. The lighters of London--the men at the gasworks and electric lighting stations--threw down their tools; the lamplighters “struck,” and presently a great horror of darkness fell on the distracted citizens. The hours went on, and the snow still fell, deadening the sounds of night, muffling the city in a mighty shroud. This gradual hush of London seemed to many far more appalling than its familiar roar. But towards midnight, here and there, custom asserted itself, in spite of adverse influences, and the church bells reminded residents, at any rate those in the central districts, that this, in very truth, was Christmas Eve. Over the broad squares south of St Pancras the deep-toned bells chimed out the ancient hymn: “Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.”