“Why, Boyne!” he cried.

“Oh, Mr. Breckon!” Boyne wailed back.  “Is it you?  Oh, do tell them I didn’t mean to do anything!  I thought she beckoned to me.”

“Who?  Who beckoned to you?”

“The Queen!” Boyne sobbed, while the detectives pulled him relentlessly on.

Breckon addressed them suavely in their owe tongue which had never come in more deferential politeness from human lips.  He ventured the belief that there was a mistake; he assured them that he knew their prisoner, and that he was the son of a most respectable American family, whom they could find at the Kurhaus in Scheveningen.  He added some irrelevancies, and got for all answer that they had made Boyne’s arrest for sufficient reasons, and were taking him to prison.  If his friends wished to intervene in his behalf they could do so before the magistrate, but for the present they must admonish Mr. Breckon not to put himself in the way of the law.

“Don’t go, Mr. Breckon!” Boyne implored him, as his captors made him quicken his pace after slowing a little for their colloquy with Breckon.  “Oh, where is poppa?  He could get me away.  Oh, where is poppa?”

“Don’t!  Don’t call out, Boyne,” Breckon entreated.  “Your father is right here at the end of the street.  He’s in the carriage there with Miss Kenton.  I was coming to look for you.  Don’t cry out so!”

“No, no, I won’t, Mr. Breckon.  I’ll be perfectly quiet now.  Only do get poppa quick!  He can tell them in a minute that it’s all right!”

He made a prodigious effort to control himself, while Breckon ran a little ahead, with some wild notion of preparing Ellen.  As he disappeared at the corner, Boyne choked a sob into a muffed bellow, and was able to meet the astonished eyes of his father and sister in this degree of triumph.

They had not in the least understood Breckon’s explanation, and, in fact, it had not been very lucid.  At sight of her brother strenuously upheld between the detectives, and dragged along the sidewalk, Ellen sprang from the carriage and ran towards him.  “Why, what’s the matter with Boyne?” she demanded.  “Are you hurt, Boyne, dear?  Are they taking him to the hospital?”

Before he could answer, and quite before the judge could reach the tragical group, she had flung her arms round Boyne’s neck, and was kissing his tear-drabbled face, while he lamented back, “They’re taking me to prison.”

“Taking you to prison?  I should like to know what for!  What are you taking my brother to prison for?” she challenged the detectives, who paused, bewildered, while all the little Dutch boys round admired this obstruction of the law, and several Dutch housewives, too old to go out to see the queens, looked down from their windows.  It was wholly illegal, but the detectives were human.  They could snub such a friend of their prisoner as Breckon, but they could not meet the dovelike ferocity of Ellen with unkindness.  They explained as well as they might, and at a suggestion which Kenton made through Breckon, they admitted that it was not beside their duty to take Boyne directly to a magistrate, who could pass upon his case, and even release him upon proper evidence of his harmlessness, and sufficient security for any demand that justice might make for his future appearance.