The attorney and Carew left the court, the former volubly indignant at the miscarriage of justice, the latter moody and thoughtful.

"And now," cried the Hollander, "here we are at the best cafÉ in Rotterdam. Come in, and let us wash out the taste of crime with some beer."

They sat down at one of the little round tables, and two tall glasses foaming at the brim were placed before them.

"They have all the English papers here," said the advocate. "I will ask the waiter to bring you one."

Carew looked round the room, and suddenly his face paled, for he saw sitting at a table at some distance off a fellow-countryman, whom he recognised as a tobacconist in Fleet Street, a man who, no doubt, knew Carew's name and profession well, for the solicitor had often made purchases at his shop.

Carew did not lose his presence of mind. The man was reading the Times, and had, in all probability, not yet observed him.

"Mynheer Hoogendyk," he said, "I am sorry that I must leave you now. I hope you will excuse me. I have an engagement, and in your agreeable company I had forgotten all about it."

"You flatter me, sir," replied the advocate with a bow. "I trust that you will honour me by dining with me to-morrow at eight, your English hour, I believe, for that repast. My wife speaks English well, and will be delighted to see you."

"I accept your invitation with the greatest pleasure, mynheer."

Then they rose to go, and Carew contrived to keep his lively companion between him and the man from Fleet Street as they walked out of the cafÉ.

The solicitor felt ill at ease until he had left behind this bright and crowded portion of the city, and was once again in the region of the gloomy and malodorous slums where the yacht was lying.

He saw how necessary it was that he should leave Rotterdam the next day if possible. It was no place for him. His recognition by some one or other must occur sooner or later if he stayed here. So, having dined in a dingy little hostelry on the quay opposite to the yacht, he visited some of the least-frequented streets, and purchased the few necessaries for the cruise which he had not already procured. He came across a fisherman on the canal who was willing to sell him a small, clumsy boat which could serve him as dinghy. After some bargaining in pantomime—for neither understood the other's tongue—Carew secured this for the sum of three pounds.

Passing an apothecary's shop, it occurred to him that it would be well to take some of the more necessary medicines with him, seeing that he might be some months at sea without calling at any port. He entered the shop and proceeded to draw up a list of his requirements, to which, as an afterthought, he added some drugs in less common use.

"These last are poisons," said the chemist in broken English. "I cannot supply you with these unless you are a doctor."

Carew, with bold invention, explained that he was the captain of a vessel, and as such was the ship's doctor, and had a right to any drugs he might choose to ask for; and he produced his Admiralty warrant in proof of his statement.

The man was puzzled, perused the warrant without understanding it, and at last, reluctantly waiving his scruples, gave the solicitor all that he required.

His vessel was now completely fitted out; nothing was wanting but a crew, and here a difficulty presented itself. He felt that it was highly important that no one in Rotterdam should know that he was sailing for Buenos Ayres, else the report that so small a yacht was about to undertake so long a voyage would spread rapidly, and would soon appear in the English papers. He wished it to be supposed that he was merely taking a few weeks' cruise in Dutch waters.

But then, how would his men take it were he only to divulge his destination to them when they were well out at sea? The probability was that they would refuse to obey his orders, and insist upon returning. Professional sailors are not fond of ocean voyages in tiny craft.

Evidently his only plan was to prowl about the docks that night, select with care three likely-looking men for his purpose,—men without wives or ties of any sort,—bring them on board the yacht, offer them good pay, and at the last moment tell them where he was bound for. Then, if they still consented to accompany him, he would sail away at once, allowing them no opportunity of gossiping with their friends on shore. Willem, he knew, was not the man for him. The honest Dutchman must be discharged at once on some pretext or other.

Carew sat on deck, pipe in mouth, meditating on these matters. He was alone on the yacht, for Willem had gone off on leave for a few hours to visit some of his relatives.

The sun was setting into a bank of rosy vapour that promised a continuance of fine weather. The hot day was closing with a sultry eve. On that quiet canal, and on the narrow quay beneath the lofty houses, there was no sound or sign of life. It was almost as if he were in the midst of some dead and long since deserted city.

But of a sudden the peacefulness of that mediÆval scene was rudely disturbed. First was heard a confused noise in the distance, as of angry human voices and the trampling of many wooden shoes. Louder, nearer was the sound, and then Carew perceived a man rush out upon the quay from a narrow alley, some hundred yards away, that led towards the principal docks. The man, who seemed frantic with terror, stood still for one brief moment, looked quickly around him, as if uncertain whither to hurry next: whether to plunge into the canal, or run along the quay to left or right.

Then arose a loud yell of many voices behind him, as of hounds that at last have caught a view of the hunted creature; and the man, hearing it, darted off again at full speed along the canal bank in the direction of the yacht.

Immediately afterwards there poured out of the alley a crowd of nearly a hundred men, women, and children, mostly of the lowest orders; denizens of the slums, though some were of a more respectable class; a crowd of Hollanders who had lost all their native phlegm for the nonce; a crowd gesticulating, howling, execrating, thirsting for the blood of the man they were pursuing; mad and fierce as a mob of Paris in revolutionary days when an aristocrat was scented by the sovereign people.

The wretched man was hatless; his coat and half his shirt had been torn from his back; the blood was trickling down his face from the wounds on his head where the stones that had been hurled at him had hit.

On he came, running wildly before them, his face livid, his mouth open, his teeth set, eyes starting from his head with mortal terror, panting as if his heart must burst, ready to fall with exhaustion, but still hurrying on for his dear life's sake.

When he was close to the yacht his strength failed him; he stretched out his arms wildly, and staggered. With a yell of triumph the cruel crowd was on him. A man struck him over the head with a stick. Then, with one last despairing effort, he threw himself from the quay on to the yacht's deck, and fell a helpless mass at Carew's feet, clutching him by the legs, as if to implore his protection, but unable to speak or move.

His pursuers stood on the quay above, muttering angrily to each other, but hesitated a moment or so before they ventured to board the yacht, each waiting for someone else to lead the way.

Those few moments saved the hunted man.

"Below there!" cried Carew, pointing to the cabin. "Quick, man, or you will be lost."

Seeing that the poor wretch was too exhausted to rise by himself, he seized him by the arm, thrust him down the cabin hatchway, closed the cover over him, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. It was all done in a few seconds, and then the solicitor turned round and stood calmly facing the mob.

The people had not realised at first that Carew was about to rob them of their victim. Now that they did so, a howl of rage burst from them, and some shouted to him, what were evidently commands to give the man up to them, and menaces of what they would do if he refused, though he could not understand the words.

One man began to clamber down to the yacht; but Carew seized his leg and threw him on the quay again, not over-gently. "Silence!" the solicitor called out, leaping back on the hatchway; and the Dutchmen, impressed by the Englishman's resolute bearing, paused and listened to what he had to say.

"Does anyone here understand English?" he asked.

As might be expected from a crowd in a Dutch city, several men cried out, "Yes, Englishman; yes, we know English."

"Then, what is all this disturbance about? Are you all mad?"

"We want dat man," replied a surly voice.

"You can't have him."

"Den ve vill take him."

"Oh, will you?" Carew drew from his pocket Allen's revolver, which he always carried about with him now. "Look you here, my friends; I don't want a row, but if any man tries to come on board my vessel without my permission I will shoot him."

They were awed by the quiet determination of his manner, and felt that he would carry out his words.

"Does you know who you has down dere below?" asked the man who had spoken before.

"I don't know, and I don't care; but he is not going to be murdered by you cowards on board my vessel. If he has committed some crime, call the police. I will deliver him over to them only."

The passions of the mob had now cooled down considerably, and the men began to light their pipes, and looked once more the staid Dutchmen they naturally were.

At this juncture five or six of the sturdy Rotterdam police arrived on the spot, and commenced to disperse the crowd so effectually that in a few minutes not a soul was left on the quay.

One of the policemen, who understood a little English, came on board the yacht and inquired from Carew how the disturbance had commenced.

Carew told him all that had occurred.

"I should like to see the man," said the officer.

They entered the cabin, and there, sitting in the corner of the bunk, trembling, haggard, his face still quite white, save where it was smeared with blood, was the French sailor who had that day been tried for murder on the high seas, and been acquitted.

"I thought so," said the policeman. "It is the accused, Baptiste Liais. His case caused great excitement. The people are very bitter against him, for they all believe he was guilty. He is not safe in Rotterdam. We must find a way of getting him out of the country."

"You can leave him here for the present," said Carew. "I will see that the poor wretch is safe for the night."

"It is very generous of you, sir," exclaimed the astonished policeman; "but I think it is very unwise of you"—

"I am not afraid of him," interrupted Carew, in peremptory tones. "Leave him with me."

The officer shrugged his shoulders. He had always been taught to believe that Englishmen were eccentric creatures; so he went away and told his comrades that the owner of the yacht was a splendid specimen of the mad island race, and Carew and the Frenchman were left alone in the cabin facing one another.