“Ah,” said Baillo, with a cunning smile, “our man is also a great American.  He can command the gunboats, too, sahib.  We have told him that you have the great power.  He shows us that he can call upon the English ships as well, for he comes last from London.  He can have both, while you have only one.  Besides, he says you cannot send a message in the air, without the wire, unless he give permission.  He have a little machine that catch all the lightning in the air and hold it till he reads the message.  Our man is a great man—­next to Mohammed.”

Britt passed his hand over his brow, staggered by these statements.  Gnawing at his stubby mustache, he was compelled to stand by helplessly, while they crowded through the gates like a pack of hounds at the call of the master.  The deserters were gone; the deserted stood staring after them with wonder in their eyes.  Suddenly Britt laughed and clapped Deppingham on the back.

“Say, he’s smoother than I thought.  Most men would have been damned fools enough to say that it was all poppy-cock about me sending wireless messages and calling out navies; but not he!  And that machine for tapping the air!  Say, we’d better go slow with that fellow.  If you say so, I’ll call him up and tell him we’ll agree to his little old conference.  What say to that, Browne?  And you, Deppy?  Think we—­”

“See here,” roared Deppingham, red as a lobster, “I won’t have you calling me Deppy, confound your—­”

“I’ll take it all back, my lord.  Slip of the tongue.  Please overlook it.  But, say, shall I call him up on the ’phone and head off the strike?”

“Anything, Mr. Britt, to get back our servants,” said Lady Deppingham, who had come up with Mrs. Browne.

“I was just beginning to learn their names and to understand their English,” lamented Mrs. Browne.

When Britt reappeared after a brief stay in the telephone booth he was perspiring freely, and his face was redder, if possible, than ever before.

“What did he say?” demanded Mrs. Browne, consumed by curiosity.  Britt fanned himself for a moment before answering.

“He was very peremptory at first and very agreeable in the end, Mrs. Browne.  I said we’d come down at four-thirty.  He asked me to bring some cigarettes.  Say, he’s a strenuous chap.  He wouldn’t haggle for a second.”

Britt and Saunders found the Enemy waiting for them under the awning in front of the bank.  He was sitting in a long canvas lounging chair, his feet stretched out, his hands clasped behind his head.  There was a far-away, discontented look in his eyes.  A native was fanning him industriously from behind.  There was no uncertainty in their judgment of him; he looked a man from the top of his head to the tips of his canvas shoes.

Every line of his long body indicated power, vitality, health.  His lean, masterful face, with its clear grey eyes (the suspicion of a sardonic smile in their depths), struck them at once as that of a man who could and would do things in the very teeth of the dogs of war.