"Eltham is in that car!" he gasped. "Just God! are we to stand here
and see him taken away to--"

He beat his fist upon the tree, in a sort of tragic despair. The
nearest cab-rank was no great distance away, but, excluding the
possibility of no cab being there, it might, for all practical
purposes, as well have been a mile off.

The beat of the retreating motor was scarcely audible; the lights
might but just be distinguished. Then, coming in an opposite
direction, appeared the headlamp of another car, of a car that raced
nearer and nearer to us, so that, within a few seconds of its first
appearance, we found ourselves bathed in the beam of its headlights.

Smith bounded out into the road, and stood, a weird silhouette, with
upraised arms, fully in its course!

The brakes were applied hurriedly. It was a big limousine, and its
driver swerved perilously in avoiding Smith and nearly ran into me.
But, the breathless moment past, the car was pulled up, head on to the
railings; and a man in evening clothes was demanding excitedly what
had happened. Smith, a hatless, disheveled figure, stepped up to the
door.

"My name is Nayland Smith," he said rapidly--"Burmese Commissioner." He
snatched a letter from his pocket and thrust it into the hands of the
bewildered man. "Read that. It is signed by another Commissioner--the
Commissioner of Police."

With amazement written all over him, the other obeyed.