andbag. Both wallet and handbag were locked; they demanded the keys,
thinking I had them hidden on my person, but I said they could find
them for themselves, the truth being the locks were on a patent plan
and could be opened with the fingers by any one who knew. This secret
I chose to retain.

When alone in my gloomy prison, with leisure to reflect more calmly on
my painful position, I realized what an ass I had been, and I vented
my wrath chiefly on myself. But it was idle to repine. My object now
was to go free again at the earliest possible moment, and I cast about
to see how I might best compass it.

At first I was very humble, very apologetic. I acknowledged my error,
and promised to do anything in my power to indemnify my victim. I
offered him any money in reason, I would pay any sum they might fix,
pay down on the nail and give my bond for the rest.

My gaolers scouted the proposal indignantly. Did I think justice was
to be bought in Switzerland? It was the law I had outraged, not an
individual merely. Besides--money is all powerful in this venal
country--how could I pay, a poor devil like me, the necessary price?
what could I produce in cash on the nail? My bond would not be worth
the paper it was written on.

No, no, there was no chance for me; nothing could save me. I must go
before the correctional police and pay in person for my offence. I
might expect to be punished summarily, to be sent to gaol, to be laid
by the heels for a month or two, perhaps more. Such a brutal assault
as mine would be avenged handsomely.

Now I changed my tactics. 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