“All on board were safe. It was almost a miracle. The steamer could not have floated for another hour, and,” he added, significantly, “she was discovered drifting towards the Race of Alderney, deserted by her captain and the crew. A monstrous outrage!--monstrous!” “Then Sir John--all of them--must be on their way to London now,” exclaimed Herrick. “No,” said the marquis quietly. “They are safe, but at present they are not on their way to England. They were picked up by a German cruiser; and our relations with Germany at the present moment are not friendly.” A faint half-smile flickered over his face. “It is what a former colleague of mine would call ‘a sort of a war!’” Lord Downland took up his hat and moved towards the door. “Your lordship means that they are prisoners?” “Yes, Mr Herrick. But there is no need for alarm,” with a reassuring glance towards Aldwyth. “England also has a prisoner--one of very great distinction. At this moment he is on his way by special train from Penzance to Windsor Castle.” * * * * * On each side of the entrance to Mount Street, as the carriage approached with the Foreign Minister on his way to Paddington, small groups were loitering. The men, for the most part, had the look of foreigners. Three things were vividly recalled later on--one of them, that the officer in command of the cavalry escort sent two troopers ahead; secondly, that, on seeing this, Henshaw ran forward with a loud cry of warning; thirdly, that a shrill whistle was heard as the troopers, followed rapidly by the carriage, approached the turning into Mount Street. Then, swiftly following on the whistle, there was a blue flash in the air, and a sharp, cracking detonation. The leading troopers were scattered, one of the horses plunged and fell with a crash upon the pavement, throwing its rider heavily against a doorstep. The troopers’ horses in rear of the carriage reared and plunged; a scream came from some women who were near, and a young girl, shockingly mutilated, fell bleeding to the ground. The bomb had struck the roadway between the leading troopers and the carriage horses, but, as if by a miracle, the latter, though terrified, were uninjured, and tore through Mount Street at a gallop. Behind them, on the right-hand pavement a struggling group was seen. Henshaw, whose device had been defeated by the misconceived movement of the troopers, had darted on a sallow-faced man with a short black beard. The man fought like a wild beast in the detective’s grip, but the uniformed police had hurried to the scene, and one of the most powerful--it was P. C. Dormer--enveloped the dynamitard in his arms, while others went in hot pursuit of his fleeing confederates. CHAPTER XXXIV THE EAGLE IN THE LION’S JAWS