



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Lady in the Car
By William Le Queux
Published by J.B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia.
This edition dated 1908.

The Lady in the Car, by William Le Queux.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE LADY IN THE CAR, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

PREFACE.

AN APOLOGY.

I hereby tender an apology to the reader for being compelled, in these
curious chronicles of an adventurous motorist and his actions towards
certain of his female acquaintances, to omit real names, and to
substitute assumed ones.  With the law of libel looming darkly, the
reason is obvious.

Since the days when, as lads, we played cricket together at Cheltenham
"the Prince," always a sportsman and always generous to the poor, has
ever been my friend.  In the course of my own wandering life of the past
dozen years or so, I have come across him in all sorts of unexpected
places up and down Europe, and more especially in those countries beyond
the Danube which we term the Balkans.

For certain of his actions, and for the ingenuity of his somewhat
questionable friends, I make no apology.  While the game of
"mug-hunting" remains so easy and so profitable, there will be always
both hunters and hunted.  As my friend's escapades were related to me,
so have I set them down in the following pages, in the belief that my
readers may perhaps care to make more intimate acquaintance with the
clever, fearless, and altogether remarkable man whose exploits have
already, from time to time, been referred to in guarded and mysterious
terms by the daily press.

William Le Queux.

CHAPTER ONE.

HIS HIGHNESS'S LOVE AFFAIR.

The Prince broke open a big box of choice "Petroffs," selected one, lit
it slowly, and walked pensively to the window.

He was in a good mood that morning, for he had just got rid of a
troublesome visitor.

The big _salon_ was elegantly furnished with long mirrors, gilt chairs
covered with sky-blue silk upholstery, a piano, and a pretty
writing-table set close to the long window, which led out to a balcony
shaded by a red-and-white sun-blind--the _salon_ of the best suite in
the Majestic, that huge hotel facing the sea in King's Road, Brighton.

He was a tall, well-set-up man of about thirty-three; dark-haired,
good-looking, easy-going, and refined, who, for the exception of the
slightest trace of foreign accent in his speech, might easily have been
mistaken for an Englishman.  In his well-cut dark brown flannels and
brown shoes he went to the balcony, and, leaning over, gazed down upon
the sun-lit promenade, full of life and movement below.

His arrival a few days before had caused quite a flutter in the big
hotel.  He had not noticed it, of course, being too used to it.  He
travelled a great deal--indeed, he was always travelling nowadays--and
had learned to treat the constant endeavours of unknown persons to
scrape acquaintance with him with the utter disregard they deserved.

Not often did the Majestic, so freely patronised by the stockbroker and
the newly-rich, hold as guest any person equalling the Prince in social
distinction, yet at the same time so modest and retiring.  The blatant
persons overcrowding the hotel that August Sunday, those pompous,
red-faced men in summer clothes and white boots, and those over-dressed
women in cream silk blouses and golden chatelaines, mostly denizens of
Kensington or Regent's Park, had been surprised when an hour ago he had
walked along the hall and gone outside to speak with his chauffeur.  He
was so very good-looking, such a sportsman, and so very English they
whispered.  And half of those City men's wives were instantly dying for
an opportunity of speaking with him, so that they could return to their
suburban friends and tell of their acquaintance with the cousin of his
Imperial Majesty the Kaiser.

But Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was thinking of other things.  He
had no use for that over-fed Sunday crowd, with their slang chatter,
their motor-cars and their gossip of "bithneth," through which he had
just passed.  He drew half a dozen times at his yellow Russian
cigarette, tossed it away, and lit another.

He was thinking of his visitor who had just left, and--well, there
remained a nasty taste in his mouth.  The man had told him something--
something that was not exactly pleasant.  Anyhow, he had got rid of him.
So Prince Albert Ernst Karl Wilhelm, head of the great house of
Hesse-Holstein, grand-cross of the Orders of the Black Eagle, Saint Sava
and the Elephant, and Commander of St Hubert and of the Crown of Italy,
returned again to the balcony, smoked on, and watched.

In the meantime, in the big hall below, sat a well-dressed elderly lady
with her daughter, a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed girl of twenty, a
dainty figure in white, who wore a jade bangle upon her left wrist.
They were Americans on a tour with "poppa" through Europe.  Mr Robert
K.  Jesup, of Goldfields, Nevada, had gone to pay a pilgrimage to
Stratford-on-Avon, while his wife and daughter were awaiting him in
Brighton.

With the inquisitiveness of the American girl Mary Jesup had obtained
the "Almanach de Gotha" from the reading-room, and both mother and
daughter were, with difficulty, translating into English the following
notice of the Prince's family which they found within the little
red-covered book:

"Evangeliques--Souche: Widukind III, comte de Schwalenberg (principaute
de Holstein), 1116-1137; bailli a Arolsen et acquisition du chateau de
Hesse vers, 1150; Comte du Saint Empire de Hesse, 1349, dignite
confirme, 22 juin, 1548; bailli de Wildungen, 1475; acquisition
d'Eisenberg (chateau fort, aujourd'hui en ruines, situe sur la montagne
du meme nom) vers, 1485; acquisition par heritage du comte de Pyrmont,
1631; coll. du titre de `Hoch et Wohlgeboren,' Vienne, 25 fevr., 1627;
pretention a l'heritage du comte de Rappolstein (Ribeaupierre
Haute-Alsace) et des seigneuries de Hohenack et de Geroldseck (ibidem)
par suite du mariage (2 juill, 1658) du cte Chretien-Louis, ne 29 juill,
1635, + 12 dec. 1706, avec Elisabeth de Rappolstein, nee 7 Mars, 1644, +
6 dec. 1676, apres la mort de son oncle Jean-Jacques dernier comte de
Rappolstein, 28 juill, 1673; les lignes ci-dessus descendent de deux
fils (freres consaiguins) du susdit Chretien-Louis comte de
Hesse-Eisenberg, de Pyrmont et Rappolstein, etc.--V.  L'edition de 1832
(Page 84)."

"There, mother!" exclaimed the pretty girl.  "Why, they were an ancient
family even before America was discovered!  Isn't he real nice?  Say!  I
only wish we knew him."

"Ah, my dear," replied the elder woman with a sigh.  "Those kind of
people never know us.  He's a royalty."

"But he looks such a nice man.  What a lovely car he's got--real fine!
I've been out to see it.  How I wish he'd take us for a ride."

"You'd better ask him, my dear," laughed her mother.

"Guess I shouldn't be backward.  I believe he would in a moment, if I
asked him very nicely," she exclaimed, laughing in chorus.  Truth to
tell, she had admired him when she had first encountered him two days
ago.  She had been seated in one of those wicker chairs outside the door
in King's Road, when he had come out and taken the chair next to hers,
awaiting his car--a big sixty "Mercedes" painted cream, with the
princely arms and crown upon its panels.

He was talking in English to his man, who had carried out his
motor-coat.  He was a prince--one of the wealthiest of all the German
princes, a keen automobilist, a sportsman who had hunted big game in
German East Africa, a landlord who owned a principality with half a
dozen mediaeval castles and some of the finest estates in the German
Empire, and one of the Kaiser's most intimate relatives.  And yet he was
travelling with only his man and his motor-car.

Though Mary Jesup was heiress to the two millions sterling which her
father had made during the past three years--as half the people in the
hotel knew--yet she was aware that even her father's wealth could not
purchase for her the title of Princess of Hesse-Holstein.  She was a
very charming girl, bright, athletic and go-ahead--a typical American
girl of to-day--and as she strolled out along the pier with her mother,
her thoughts constantly reverted to the young man in brown who had given
her more than one glance when he had passed.

Meanwhile, there had entered to the Prince his faithful valet Charles, a
tall, thin, clean-shaven Englishman, some four years his senior.

"Well?" asked his Highness sharply casting himself into an easy-chair,
and taking another "Petroff."

"Got rid of him--eh?"

"Yes--but it was difficult.  I gave him a couple of sovereigns, and made
an appointment to meet him in the bar of the Cecil, in London, next
Thursday at four."

"Good.  That gives us time," remarked the Prince with a sigh of relief.
"And about the girl?  What have you found out?"

"She and her mother dined in the _table-d'hote_ room last night, and
took coffee afterwards in the Palm Court.  The father is the man who
owns the gold-mines in Nevada--worth ten million dollars.  Last year he
gave half a million dollars to charity, and bought the Bourbon pearls
for his wife.  Gave eighty thousand pounds for them.  She's got them
here, a long string twice round her neck and reaches to her waist.
She's wearing them to-day, and everybody, of course, thinks they're
false."

"How foolish these American women are!  Fancy wearing pearls of that
price in the open street!  Why, she might easily be robbed," his master
remarked.

"But who'd believe they're genuine?  They're too big to take a thiefs
fancy," replied the faithful Charles.  "The Jesups seem fond of
jewellery.  Miss Mary has a lovely diamond necklet--"

"And wore it last night, I suppose?"

"Of course.  They are newly-rich people, and crowd it all on.  Yet, what
does it matter?  Men like Jesup can easily buy more if they lose it.
Why, to have her jewels stolen is only a big advertisement for the
American woman.  Haven't you seen cases in the paper--mostly at Newport
they seem to occur."

"The girl is pretty--distinctly pretty, Charles," remarked the Prince
slowly, with a philosophic air.

"Yes, your Highness.  And she'd esteem it a great honour if you spoke to
her, I'm sure."

Prince Albert pursed his lips.

"I think not.  These American girls have a good deal of spirit.  She'd
most probably snub me."

"I think not.  I passed through the hall five minutes ago, and she was
looking you up in the `Almanach de Gotha.'"

His Highness started.

"Was she?" he cried with quick interest.  "Then she evidently knows all
about me by this time!  I wonder--" and he paused without concluding his
sentence.

Charles saw that his master was thinking deeply, so he busied himself by
putting some papers in order.

"She's uncommonly pretty," his Highness declared presently.  "But dare I
speak to her, Charles?  You know what these Americans are."

"By all means speak to her.  The mother and daughter would be company
for you for a few days.  You could invite them to go motoring, and
they'd no doubt accept," the man suggested.

"I don't want the same experience that we had in Vichy, you know."

"Oh, never fear.  These people are quite possible.  Their wealth hasn't
spoilt them--as far as I can hear."

"Very well, Charles."  The Prince laughed, tossing his cigarette-end
into the grate, and rising.  "I'll make some excuse to speak with them."

And Charles, on his part, entertained shrewd suspicions that his master,
confirmed bachelor that he was, had, at last, been attracted by a girl's
fresh, fair beauty, and that girl an American.

Time hung heavily upon the Prince's hands.  That afternoon he ran over
in his car to Worthing, where he dined at Warne's, and the evening he
spent in lonely state in a box at the Brighton Alhambra.  Truth to tell,
he found himself thinking always of the sweet-faced, rather saucy
American girl, whose waist was so neat, whose tiny shoes were so
pointed, and whose fair hair was always drawn straight back from her
intelligent brow.

Yes.  He felt he must know her.  The morrow came, and with it an
opportunity occurred to speak with her mother.

They were sitting, as it is usual to sit, at the door of the hotel, when
a mishap to a dog-cart driven by a well-known actress gave him the
desired opportunity, and ten minutes later he had the satisfaction of
bowing before Mary Jesup herself.

He strolled with them on to the Pier, chatting so very affably that both
mother and daughter could hardly believe that he was the cousin of an
Emperor.  Then, at his request to be allowed to join them at their table
at luncheon, they had their midday meal together.

The girl in white was altogether charming, and so unlike the
milk-and-water misses of Germany, or the shy, dark-eyed minxes of France
or Italy, so many of whom had designed to become Princess of
Hesse-Holstein.  Her frank open manner, her slight American twang, and
her Americanisms he found all delightful.  Mrs Jesup, too, was a
sensible woman, although this being the first occasion that either
mother or daughter had even met a prince, they used "Your Highness" a
trifle too frequently.

Nevertheless, he found this companionship of both women most charming.

"What a splendid motor-car you have!"  Mary remarked when, after
luncheon, they were taking their coffee in the Palm Court at the back of
the hotel.

"I'm very fond of motoring, Miss Jesup.  Are you?" was his Highness's
reply.

"I love it.  Poppa's got a car.  We brought it over with us and ran
around France in it.  We left it in Paris till we get back to the
Continent in the fall.  Then we do Italy," she said.

"Perhaps you would like to have a run with me and your mother
to-morrow," the Prince suggested.  "It's quite pretty about the
neighbourhood."

"I'm sure you're very kind, Prince," responded the elder woman.  "We
should be charmed.  And further, I guess my husband'll be most delighted
to meet you when he gets down here.  He's been in Germany a lot."

"I shall be very pleased to meet Mr Jesup," the young patrician
responded.  "Till he comes, there's no reason why we should not have a
few runs--that is, if you're agreeable."

"Oh! it'll be real lovely!" declared Mary, her pretty face brightening
in anticipation of the pleasure of motoring with the man she so admired.

"Then what about running over to Eastbourne to tea to-day?" he
suggested.

Mother and daughter exchanged glances.  "Well," replied Mrs Jesup, "we
don't wish to put you out in the least, Prince.  I'm sure--"

"Good!  You'll both come.  I'll order the car for three o'clock."

The Prince ascended the stairs much gratified.  He had made a very
creditable commencement.  The hundred or so of other girls of various
nations who had been presented to him with matrimonial intent could not
compare with her, either for beauty, for charm, or for intelligence.

It was a pity, he reflected, that she was not of royal, or even noble
birth.

Charles helped him on with a light motor-coat, and, as he did so, asked:

"If the Parson calls, what am I to say?"

"Say what you like, only send him back to London.  Tell him he is better
off in Bayswater than in Brighton.  He'll understand."

"He may want some money.  He wrote to you yesterday, remember."

"Then give him fifty pounds, and tell him that when I want to see him
I'll wire.  I want to be alone just now, Charles," he added a trifle
impatiently.  "You've got the key of my despatch-box, eh?"

"Yes, your Highness."

Below, he found the big cream- car in waiting.  Some of the
guests were admiring it, for it had an extra long wheelbase and a big
touring body and hood--a car that was the last word in all that was
comfort in automobilism.

The English chauffeur, Garrett, in drab livery faced with scarlet, and
with the princely cipher and crown upon his buttons, raised his hat on
the appearance of his master.  And again when a moment later the two
ladies, in smart motor-coats, white caps, and champagne- veils,
emerged and entered the car, being covered carefully by the fine
otter-skin rug.

The bystanders at the door of the hotel regarded mother and daughter
with envy, especially when the Prince got in at the girl's side, and,
with a light laugh, gave the order to start.

A few moments later they were gliding along the King's Road eastward, in
the direction of Lewes and Eastbourne.

"You motor a great deal, I suppose?" she asked him, as they turned the
corner by the Aquarium.

"A good deal.  It helps to pass the time away, you know," he laughed.
"When I have no guests I usually drive myself.  Quite recently I've been
making a tour up in Scotland."

"We're going up there this autumn.  To the Trossachs.  They say they're
fine!  And we're going to see Scott's country, and Edinburgh.  I'm dying
to see Melrose Abbey.  It must be lovely from the pictures."

"You ought to get your father to have his car over," the Prince
suggested.  "It's a magnificent run up north from London."

The millionaire's wife was carefully examining the Prince with covert
glances.  His Highness was unaware that the maternal gaze was so
searching, otherwise he would probably have acted somewhat differently.

A splendid run brought them to Lewes, the old-world Sussex capital.
There, with a long blast of the electric siren, they shot down the hill
and out again upon the Eastbourne Road, never pulling up until they were
in the small garden before the Queen's.

Mary Jesup stepped out, full of girlish enthusiasm.  Her only regret was
that the people idling in the hall of the hotel could not be told that
their companion was a real live Prince.

They took tea under an awning overlooking the sea, and his Highness was
particularly gracious towards Mrs Jesup, until both mother and daughter
were filled with delight at his pleasant companionship.  He treated both
women as equals; his manner, as they afterwards put it, being devoid of
any side, and yet he was every inch a prince.

That run was the first of many they had together.

Robert K.  Jesup had been suddenly summoned by cable to Paris on
business connected with his mining interests, therefore his wife and
daughter remained in Brighton.  And on account of their presence the
Prince lingered there through another fortnight.  Mostly he spent his
days walking or motoring with Mrs Jesup and her daughter, and
sometimes--on very rare occasions--he contrived to walk with Mary alone.

One morning, when he had been with her along the pier listening to the
band, he returned to luncheon to find in his own room a rather tall,
clean-shaven, middle-aged clergyman, whose round face and ruddy
complexion gave him rather the air of a _bon vivant_.

Sight of his unexpected visitor caused the Prince to hold his breath for
a second.  It was the Parson.

"Sorry I was out," his Highness exclaimed.  "Charles told you where I
was, I suppose?"

"Yes, Prince," replied the cleric.  "I helped myself to a whisky and
soda.  Hope you won't mind.  It was a nice morning in town, so I thought
I'd run down to see you."

"You want another fifty, I suppose--eh?" asked his Highness sharply.
"Some other work of charity--eh?"

"My dear Prince, you've guessed it at once.  You are, indeed, very
good."

His Highness rang the bell, and when the valet appeared, gave him orders
to go and get fifty pounds, which he handed to the clergyman.

Then the pair had luncheon brought up to the room, and as they sat
together their conversation was mostly about mutual friends.  For a
cleric the Reverend Thomas Clayton was an extremely easy-going man, a
thorough sportsman of a type now alas! dying out in England.

It was plain to see that they were old friends, and plainer still when,
on parting a couple of hours later, the Prince said:

"When I leave here, old fellow, you'll join me for a little, won't you?
Don't worry me any more at present for your Confounded--er charities--
will you?  Fresh air for the children, and whisky for yourself--eh?  By
Jove, if I hadn't been a Prince, I'd have liked to have been a parson!
Good-bye, old fellow."  And the rubicund cleric shook his friend's hand
heartily and went down the broad staircase.

The instant his visitor had gone he called Charles and asked excitedly:

"Did any one know the Parson came to see me?"

"No, your Highness.  I fortunately met him in King's Road, and brought
him up here.  He never inquired at the office."

"He's a fool!  He could easily have written," cried the Prince eagerly.
"Where are those women, I wonder?" he asked, indicating Mrs Jesup and
her daughter.

"I told them you would be engaged all the afternoon."

"Good.  I shan't go out again to-day, Charles.  I want to think.  Go to
them with my compliments, and say that if they would like to use the car
for a run this afternoon they are very welcome.  You know what to say.
And--and see that a bouquet of roses is sent up to the young lady's room
before she goes to dress.  Put one of my cards on it."

"Yes, your Highness," replied the valet, and turning, left his master to
himself.

The visit of the Reverend Thomas Clayton had, in some way, perturbed and
annoyed him.  And yet their meeting had been fraught by a marked
cordiality.

Presently he flung himself into a big armchair, and lighting one of his
choice "Petroffs" which he specially imported, sat ruminating.

"Ah!  If I were not a Prince!" he exclaimed aloud to himself.  "I could
do it--do it quite easily.  But it's my confounded social position that
prevents so much.  And yet--yet I must tell her.  It's imperative.  I
must contrive somehow or other to evade that steely maternal eye.  I
wonder if the mother has any suspicion--whether--?"

But he replaced his cigarette between his lips without completing the
expression of his doubts.

As the sunlight began to mellow, he still sat alone, thinking deeply.
Then he moved to go and dress, having resolved to dine in the public
restaurant with his American friends.  Just then Charles opened the
door, ushering in a rather pale-faced, clean-shaven man in dark grey
tweeds.  He entered with a jaunty air and was somewhat arrogant of
manner, as he strode across the room.

The Prince's greeting was greatly the reverse of cordial.

"What brings you here, Max?" he inquired sharply.  "Didn't I telegraph
to you only this morning?"

"Yes.  But I wanted a breath of sea-air, so came down.  I want to know
if you're going to keep the appointment next Monday--or not."

"I can't tell yet."

"Hylda is anxious to know.  You promised her, remember."

"I know.  But apologise, and say that--well, I have some private
business here.  You know what to say, Max.  And I may want you down here
in a hurry.  Come at once if I wire."

The man looked him straight in the face for a few moments.

"Oh!" he ejaculated, and then without being invited, crossed and took a
cigarette.

"Charles," said the visitor to the valet who had remained in the room,
"give me a drink.  Let me wish success to matrimony."  And with a
knowing laugh he tossed off the whisky and soda handed to him.  For half
an hour he remained chatting confidentially with the Prince, then he
left, saying that he should dine alone at the Old Ship, and return to
London at ten.

When Max Mason had gone, Prince Albert heaved a long sigh, and passed
into the adjoining room to dress.

That night proved a momentous one in his Highness's life, for after
dinner Mrs Jesup complained of a bad headache, and retiring at once to
her room, left the young people together.  What more natural, therefore,
than that his Highness should invite Mary to put on her wrap and go for
a stroll along the promenade in the moonlight.  She accepted the
invitation eagerly, and went up to her mother's room.

"I'm going for a walk with him, mother," she cried excitedly as she
burst into the room where Mrs Jesup, with all traces of headache gone,
was lazily reading a novel.

"That's real good.  Put on something thick, child, for its chilly," was
the maternal reply.  "And, remember, you don't go flirting with Princes
very often."

"No, mother, but just leave him to me.  I've been thinking over what you
say, and I mean to be Princess of Hesse-Holstein before the year's out.
Or else--"

"Or else there'll be trouble--eh?" laughed her mother.

But the girl had disappeared to join the man who loved her, and who was
waiting below.

In the bright August moonlight they strolled together as far as Hove,
where they sat upon a seat outside the Lawns.  The evening was perfect,
and there were many passers-by, mostly couples more or less amatory.

Never had a girl so attracted him as had Mary that calm and glorious
night.  Never had he looked into a woman's eyes and seen there love
reflected as in hers.  They rose and strolled back again, back to the
pier which they traversed to its head.  There they found a seat
unoccupied, and rested upon it.

And there, taking her little hand tenderly in his, he blurted forth, in
the blundering words of a blundering man, the story of his affection.

She heard him in silence to the end.

"I--I think, Prince, you have not fully considered what all this means.
What--"

"It means, Mary, that I love you--love you deeply and devotedly as no
other man has ever loved a woman!  I am not given to ecstasies over
affection, for I long ago thought every spark of it was dead within my
heart.  I repeat, however, that I love you."  And ere she could prevent
him, he had raised her hand and pressed it to his lips.

She tried to withdraw it, but he held it firmly.  The moon shone full
upon her sweet face, and he noticed how pale and beautiful she looked.
She gave him one glance, and in that instant he saw the light of unshed
tears.  But she was silent, and her silence puzzled him.

"Ah!" he sighed despondently.  "Am I correct, then, in suspecting that
you already have a lover?"

"A lover?  Whom do you mean?"

"That tall, fair-haired, mysterious man who, during the past week, has
been so interested in your movements.  Have you not noticed him?  He's
staying at the hotel.  I've seen him twenty times at least, and it is
only too apparent that he admires you."

"I've never even seen him," she exclaimed in surprise.  "You must point
him out to me.  I don't like mysterious men."

"I'm not mysterious, am I?" asked the Prince, laughing, and again
raising her hand to his lips tenderly.  "Will you not answer my
question?  Do you think you can love me sufficiently--sufficiently to
become my wife?"

"But--but all this is so sudden, Prince.  I--I--"

"Can you love me?" he interrupted.

For answer she bent her head.  Next moment his lips met hers in a hot
passionate caress.  And thus did their hearts beat in unison.

Before they rose from the seat Mary Jesup had promised to become
Princess of Hesse-Holstein.

Next morning, the happy girl told her mother the gratifying news, and
when Mrs Jesup entered the Prince's private _salon_ his Highness asked
her, at least for the present, to keep their engagement secret.

That day the Prince was occupied by a quantity of correspondence, but
the future Princess, after a tender kiss upon her white brow, went out
in the car with her mother as far as Bognor.  Two hours later the Prince
sent a telegram to the Rev Thomas Clayton, despatched Charles
post-haste to London by the Pullman express, and then went out for a
stroll along King's Road.

He was one of the happiest men in all the world.

Not until dinner did he again meet Mrs Jesup and her daughter.  After
describing what an excellent run they had had, the millionaire's wife
said:

"Oh, Mary has been telling me something about a mysterious fair-haired
man whom you say has been watching her."

"Yes," replied his Highness.  "He's been hanging about for some days.  I
fancy he's no good--one of those fellows who live in hotels on the
look-out for pigeons."

"What we call in America a crook--eh?"

"Exactly.  At least that's my opinion," he declared in confidence.

Mrs Jesup and her daughter appeared both very uneasy, a circumstance
which the Prince did not fail to notice.  They went up to his _salon_
where they had coffee, and then retired early.

Half an hour later, while his Highness was lazily enjoying one of his
brown "Petroffs," the millionaire's wife, with blanched face, burst into
the room crying:

"Prince!  Oh, Prince!  The whole of my jewels and Mary's have been
stolen!  Both cases have been broken open and the contents gone!  My
pearls too!  What shall we do?"  His Highness started to his feet
astounded.  "Do?  Why find that fair-haired man!" he replied.  "I'll go
at once to the manager."  He sped downstairs, and all was quickly in
confusion.  The manager recollected the man, who had given the name of
Mason, and who had left suddenly on the previous morning.  The police
were telephoned for, and over the wires to London news of the great
jewel robbery was flashed to New Scotland Yard.

There was little sleep for either of the trio that night.  Examination
showed that whoever the thief was, he had either been in possession of
the keys of the ladies' trunks, wherein were the jewel-cases, or had
obtained impressions of them, for after the jewels had been abstracted
the trunks had been relocked.

The Prince was very active, while the two ladies and their maid were in
utter despair.  Their only consolation was that, though Mary had lost
her diamonds, she had gained a husband.

About noon on the following day, while his Highness was reading the
paper as he lolled lazily in the depths of the big armchair, a tap came
at the door and a waiter ushered in a thin, spare, grey-faced,
grey-bearded man.

The Prince sprang to his feet as though he had received an electric
shock.

The two men faced each other, both utterly dumbfounded.

"Wal!" ejaculated the visitor at last, when he found tongue.  "If this
don't beat hog-stickin'!  Say, young Tentoes, do you know I'm Robert K.
Jesup?"

"You--Jesup!  My dear Uncle Jim!" gasped the other.  "What does this
mean?"

"Yes.  Things in New York over that little poker job are a bit hot just
now, so Lil and the old Lady are working the matrimonial trick this
side--a spoony jay, secret engagement, and blackmail.  Worked it in
Paris two years ago.  Great success!  Done neatly, it's real good.  I
thought they'd got hold of a real live prince this time--and rushed
right here to find it's only you!  They ought really to be more
careful!"

"And I tell you, uncle, I too have been completely deceived.  I thought
I'd got a soft thing--those Bourbon pearls, you know?  They left their
keys about, I got casts, and when they were out bagged the boodle."

"Wal, my boy, you'd better cough 'em up right away," urged the old
American criminal, whose name was Ford, and who was known to his
associates as "Uncle Jim."

"I suppose the Parson's in it, as usual--eh?  Say! the whole lot of
sparklers aren't worth fifty dollars, but the old woman and the girl
look well in 'em.  My! ain't we all been taken in finely!  Order me a
cocktail to take the taste away.  Guess Lil'll want to twist your
rubber-neck when she sees you, so you'd better get into that famous car
of yours and make yourself scarce, young man!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The _Sussex Daily News_ next morning contained the following
announcement:

"His Royal Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein has left Brighton
for the Continent."

CHAPTER TWO.

THE PRINCE AND THE PARSON.

His Royal Highness descended from the big cream- "Mercedes" in
the Place Royale, drew off his gloves, and entered the quiet, eminently
aristocratic Hotel de l'Europe.

All Brussels knew that Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was staying
there.  Hence, as the car pulled up, and the young man in long dust-coat
and motor-goggles rose from the wheel and gave the car over to the smart
chauffeur Garrett in the grey uniform with crimson facings, a small
crowd of gaping idlers assembled to watch his entrance to the hotel.  In
the hall a few British tourists in tweeds or walking-skirts stared at
him, as though a real live prince was of different clay, while on
ascending the main staircase to his private suite, two waiters bowed
themselves almost in two.

In his sitting-room his middle-aged English man-servant was arranging
his newspapers, and closing the door sharply behind him he said:
"Charles!  That girl is quite a sweet little thing.  I've seen her
again!"

"And your Highness has fallen in love with her?" sniffed the man.

"Well, I might, Charles.  One never knows."  And he took a "Petroff"
from the big silver box, and lit it with care.  "I am very lonely, you
know."

Charles's lips relaxed into a smile, but he made no remark.  He was well
aware how confirmed was his master's bachelordom.  He often admired
pretty girls, just as much as they adored him--because he was a prince--
but his admiration was tinged with the acidity of sarcasm.

When Charles had gone, his Highness flung off his motor-coat and threw
himself into a big chair to think.  With a smart rat-a-plan, an infantry
regiment of _les braves Belges_ was crossing the Place to relieve the
guard at the Palace.  He rose and gazed across the square:

"Ah!" he laughed to himself, "my dear uncle, the Red Rubber King, is
closely guarded, it seems!  I suppose I ought to call upon him.  He's at
home, judging from the royal standard.  Whew!  What a bore it is to have
been born a prince!  If I'd been a policeman or a pork-butcher I daresay
I'd have had a much better time.  The world never guesses how badly we
fellows are handicapped.  Men like myself cannot cross the road without
some scoundrelly journalist working up a `royal scandal' or a political
complication."

Then his thoughts ran off into another direction--the direction in which
they had constantly flowed during the past week--towards a certain very
charming, sweet-faced girl, scarcely out of her teens, who was staying
with her father and mother at the Grand Hotel, down on the boulevard.

The Northovers were English--decidedly English.  They were of that
insular type who, in a Continental hotel, demand bacon and eggs for
breakfast, denounce every dish as a "foreign mess," and sigh for the
roast beef and Yorkshire pudding of middle-class suburbia.  James
Northover, Charles had discovered to be a very estimable and trusted
person, manager of the Stamford branch of the London and North Western
Bank, who was now tasting the delights of Continental travel by three
weeks' vacation in Belgium.  His wife was somewhat obese and rather
strong-minded, while little Nellie was decidedly pretty, her light brown
hair dressed low and secured by a big black velvet bow, a pair of grey,
rather mischievous eyes, sweetly dimpled cheeks, and a perfect
complexion.  Not yet nineteen, she had only left the High School a year
before, and was now being afforded an opportunity of inflicting her
school-girl French upon all and sundry with whom she came into contact.

And it was French--French with those pronounced "ong" and "onny" endings
for which the tourist-agents are so terribly responsible.

But with all her linguistical shortcomings little Nelly Northover, the
slim-waisted school-miss with the tiny wisp of unruly hair straying
across her brow, and the rather smart and intelligent chatter, had
attracted him.  Indeed, he could not get the thought of her out of his
head.

They had met at a little inn at the village of Anseremme, on the Meuse,
close to Dinant--that paradise of the cheap "hotel-included" tourist.
Something had gone wrong with the clutch of his car, and he had been
held up there for two days while an engineer had come out from Brussels
to repair the damage.  Being the only other guest in the place beside
the eminently respectable bank manager and his wife and daughter, he
lost no time in ingratiating himself with them, and more especially with
the last-named.

Though he spoke English perfectly and with but the very slightest
accent, he had given his name at the inn as Herr Birkenfeld, for was not
that one of his names?  He was Count of Birkenfeld, and seigneur of a
dozen other places, in addition to being Prince of the royal house of
Hesse-Holstein.  The bank manager and his wife, of course, believed him
to be a young German gentleman of means until, on the morning of the day
of his departure, Charles, in greatest confidence, revealed to them who
his master really was.

The English trio were utterly staggered.  To Nellie, there was an
element of romance at meeting a real prince in those rural solitudes of
river and forest.  As she declared to her mother, he was so nice and so
unassuming.  Just, indeed, like any ordinary man.

And in her young mind she compared Albert Prince of Hesse-Holstein with
the provincial young gentlemen whom she had met last season at the
popular county function, the Stamford Ball.

As constantly Nellie Northover's thoughts reverted to the affable
prince, so did his Highness, on his part, sit hour upon hour smoking his
pet Russian cigarettes in quick succession, pondering and wondering.

His position was one of terrible weariness.  Ah! how often he wished
that he had not been born a prince.  As an ordinary mortal he might have
dared to aspire to the hand of the sweet young English miss.  But as
Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, such a marriage would be denounced by
press and public as a _misalliance_.

He liked James Northover.  There was something of the John Bull about
him which he admired.  A keen, hard-headed business man, tall and bald,
who spoke with a Nottingham brogue, and who had been over thirty years
in the service of the bank, he was a highly trusted servant of his
directors.  In allowing overdrafts he seldom made mistakes, while his
courtesy had brought the bank a considerably increased business.

The Prince knew all that.  A couple of days after meeting Nellie in
Anseremme he had written to a certain Reverend Thomas Clayton, who lived
in Bayswater, and had only that morning received a long letter bearing
the Stamford postmark.

It was on account of this letter that he went out after luncheon in the
car along the Rue Royale, and down the Boulevard Botanique, to the Grand
Hotel on the Boulevard d'Anspach.

He found Nellie alone in the big _salon_, reading an English paper.  On
seeing him the girl flushed slightly and jumped to her feet, surprised
that he should call unexpectedly.

"Miss Northover!" he exclaimed, raising his motor-cap, "I've called to
take you all for a little run this afternoon--if you can come.  I have
the car outside."

"I'm sure it's awfully kind of you, Prince," the girl replied with some
confusion.  "I--well, I don't know what to say.  Father and mother are
out."

"Ah!" he laughed; "and of course you cannot come with me alone.  It is
against your English ideas of _les convenances_--eh?"

She laughed in chorus, afterwards saying:

"I expect them back in half an hour."

"Oh, then, I'll wait," he exclaimed, and taking off his motor-coat, he
seated himself in a chair and began to chat with her, asking what sights
of Brussels she had seen, at the same time being filled with admiration
at her fresh sweetness and _chic_.  They were alone in the room, and he
found an indescribable charm in her almost childlike face and girlish
chatter.  She was so unlike the artificial women of cosmopolitan society
who were his friends.

Yes.  He was deeply in love with her, and by her manner towards him he
could not fail to notice that his affection was reciprocated.

Presently her parents appeared.  They had noticed the big cream-
car with the chauffeur standing outside, and at once a flutter had run
through both their hearts, knowing that the august visitor had arrived
to call upon them.

Northover was full of apologies, but the Prince cut them short, and
within a quarter of an hour they were all in the car and on the road to
that goal of every British tourist, the battlefield of Waterloo.  The
autumn afternoon was perfect.  The leaves had scarcely begun to turn,
and the sun so hot that it might still have been August.

Nellie's father was just as proud of the Prince's acquaintance as she
was herself, while Mrs Northover was filled with pleasurable
anticipations of going back to quiet, old-world Stamford--a place where
nothing ever happens--and referring, in the hearing of her own
tea-drinking circle, to "my friend Prince Albert."

A week passed.  Mr and Mrs Northover could not fail to notice how
constantly the Prince was in Nellie's society.

Only once, however, did her father mention it to his wife, and then in
confidence.

"Nellie seems much struck by the Prince, don't you think?  And I'm sure
he admires her.  He's such a good fellow.  I like him.  I suppose it's a
mere harmless flirtation--and it amuses them both."

"Fancy, if she became Princess of Hesse-Holstein, James!"

But James Northover only grunted dubiously.  He was ignorant of the
truth; ignorant of the fact that on the previous night, while they had
been taking a stroll along the boulevard after dinner, the Prince, who
had been walking with Nellie, had actually whispered to her a
declaration of love.

It had all been done so secretly.  The pair had been following a little
distance behind her worthy parents, and in the star-lit night he had
pressed her hand.  He had told her hurriedly, whispering low, how fondly
he had loved her from the very first moment they had met.  How devoted
he was to her, and declaring that no woman had ever touched the chord of
love in his heart as she had done.

"To-morrow, dearest, we shall part," he whispered; "but before we do so
will you not give me one word of hope--hope that you may some day be
mine!  Tell me, can you ever reciprocate my love?" he whispered in deep
earnestness, as he bent to her, still holding her little hand in his
strong grip as they walked.

For a few moments she was silent; her dimpled chin sank upon her breast.
He felt her quivering with emotion, and as the light of a gas-lamp fell
across her beautiful face he saw tears in her eyes.

She turned to him and lifted her gaze to his.  Then he knew the truth
without her spoken word.  She was his--his own!

"We will keep our secret, dearest," he said presently.  "No one must
know.  For family reasons it must not yet leak out.  Think how lonely I
shall be at this hour to-morrow--when you have left!"

"And I also," she sobbed.  "You know--you must have seen--that I love
you!"

At that moment her mother turned to look back, and consequently they
both instantly assumed an attitude of utter unconcern.  And next
afternoon when he saw the three off from the Gare du Nord by the Harwich
service, neither the estimable Northover, nor his rather obese spouse,
had the slightest idea of the true secret of the two young hearts.

Nellie grasped her lover's hand in adieu.  Their eyes met for a single
instant, and it was all-sufficient.  Each trusted the other implicitly.
It was surely a charming love-idyll between prince and school-girl.

His Highness remained in Brussels for about three weeks, then crossed to
London.  He stayed at the Carlton, where, on the night of his arrival,
he was visited by the rather ruddy-faced jovial-looking clergyman, the
Reverend Thomas Clayton.

It was Charles who announced him, saying in an abrupt manner:

"The Parson's called, your Highness."

"Show him in," was the Prince's reply.  "I was expecting him."

The greeting between Prince Albert and his old clerical friend was
hearty, and the two men spent a couple of hours over whisky and sodas
and cigarettes, chatting confidentially.

"You're in love with her, Prince!" laughed his reverend friend.

"Yes, I really and honestly believe I am," the other admitted, "and
especially so, after your report."

"My inquiries were perfectly satisfactory," the clergyman said.

"I want to have an excuse for going up to Stamford, but don't see well
how it can be managed," remarked the Prince pensively, between whiffs of
his cigarette.

"With my assistance it might, my dear boy," replied the Reverend Thomas.
"It wants a little thinking over.  You're a prince, remember."

"Yes," sighed the other wearily.  "That's just the confounded
difficulty.  I wonder what the world would say if they knew my secret?"

"Say?" and the clergyman pulled a wry face.  "Why bother about what the
world thinks?  I never do."

"Yes.  But you're a parson, and a parson can do practically just what he
likes."

"As long as he's popular with his parishioners."

And it was not till near midnight, after a dainty snack of supper,
served in the Prince's sitting-room, that the pair parted.

A fortnight later Mr James Northover was agreeably impressed to receive
a letter from the Prince stating that a great friend of his, the Rev
Thomas Clayton, of St Ethelburga's, Bayswater, was staying in Stamford,
convalescent after an illness, and that he was coming to visit him.

The Northover household was thrown into instant confusion.  Its head was
for inviting the Prince to stay with them, but Mrs Northover and Nellie
both declared that he would be far more comfortable at the Stamford
Hotel, or at the "George."  Besides, he was a prince, and Alice, the
cook, could not possibly do things as was his Highness's habit to have
them done.  So a telegram was sent to the Carlton saying that the
Northovers were most delighted at the prospect of seeing the Prince
again.

Next day his Highness arrived in the big cream- car at the
Stamford Hotel, causing great excitement in the town.  Charles had come
down by the morning train and engaged rooms for his master, and within
half an hour of the Prince's arrival the worthy mayor called and left
his card.

The Prince's first visit, however, was to his old friend, the Rev
Thos.  Clayton, whom he found in rather shabby apartments in Rock
Terrace seated in an armchair, looking very pale, and quite unlike his
usual self.

"I'm sure it's awfully good of you to become an invalid on my account?"
exclaimed the Prince the moment they were alone.  "However do you pass
your days in this sleepy hollow?"

"By study, my dear boy!  Study's a grand thing!  See!"  And he exhibited
a big dry-as-dust volume on "The Extinct Civilisations of Africa."

He remained an hour, and then, remounting into the car, drove out along
the Tinwell Road, where, half a mile from the town, Mr Northover's
comfortable, red-brick villa was situated.  He found the whole family
assembled to welcome him--as they had, indeed, been assembled in eager
expectation for the past four hours.

Nellie he found looking particularly dainty, with the usual big black
velvet bow in her hair, and wearing a neat blouse of cream washing-silk
and a short black skirt.  She was essentially the type of healthy
hockey-playing English girl.

As he grasped her hand and greeted her with formality, he felt it
tremble within his grasp.  She had kept his secret; of that there was no
doubt.

The home life of the Northovers he found quite pleasant.  It was so
unlike anything he had even been used to.  He remained to tea, and he
returned there to dine and spend a pleasant evening listening to
Nellie's performances on the piano.

Afterwards, when the ladies had retired as they did discreetly at
half-past ten, he sat smoking his "Petroffs" and chatting with Mr
Northover.

"I hope you found your friend, the clergyman, better, Prince.  Where is
he living?"

"Oh, yes; he's much better, thanks.  But he has rather wretched
quarters, in a house in Rock Terrace.  I've urged him to move into an
hotel.  He says, however, that he hates hotels.  He's such a good
fellow--gives nearly all he has to the poor."

"I suppose he's down here for fresh air?"

"Yes.  He's very fond of this neighbourhood.  Often came here when a
boy, I believe."

"When you go again I'd like to call upon him.  We must not allow him to
be lonely."

"I shall call to-morrow.  Perhaps you could go with me, after the bank
has closed?"

"Yes.  At four-thirty.  Will you call at the bank for me?"

And so it was arranged.

Punctually at the hour named the Prince stepped from his car before the
bank--which was situated in a side street between two shops--and was at
once admitted and ushered through to the manager's room.

Then the pair went on to Rock Terrace to pay the visit.  The invalid was
much better, and Northover found him a man entirely after his own heart.
He was a man of the world, as well as a clergyman.

In the week that followed, Nellie's father made several visits, and
once, on a particularly bright day, the Prince brought the Rev Thomas
round in the car to return the visit at Tinwell Road.

Within ten days the vicar of St Ethelburga's, Bayswater, had become
quite an intimate friend of the Northovers; so much so, indeed, that
they compelled him to give up his rooms in Rock Terrace, and come and
stay as their guest.  Perhaps it was more for the Prince's sake they did
this--perhaps because they admired Clayton as "a splendid fellow for a
parson."

Anyhow, all this gave the Prince plenty of opportunities for meeting
Nellie clandestinely.  Instead of going to her music-lesson, or to her
hockey-club, or visiting an old schoolfellow, she went daily to a
certain secluded spot on the Worthope Road, where she was joined by the
man she loved.

Her romance was complete.  She adored Albert, utterly and devotedly;
while he, on his part, was her slave.  On the third day after his
arrival in Stamford she had promised to become Princess of
Hesse-Holstein, and now they were closely preserving their secret.

The advent of his Highness had raised Mrs Northover to the very
pinnacle of the social scale in Stamford.  Times without number she
tried to obtain from Nellie the true state of affairs, but the girl was
sly enough to preserve her lover's secret.

If the truth were yet known to the family of Hesse-Holstein, all sorts
of complications would assuredly ensue.  Besides, it would, he felt
certain, bring upon him the displeasure of the Emperor.  He must go to
Potsdam, and announce to the Kaiser his engagement with his own lips.

And so little Nellie Northover, the chosen Princess of Hesse-Holstein,
the girl destined to become husband of the ruler of a principality half
the size of England, and the wealthiest of the German princes, often
wandered the country roads alone, and tried to peer into her brilliant
future.  What would the girls of Stamford say when they found that
Nellie Northover was actually a princess!  Why, even the Marchioness who
lived at the great ancestral mansion, mentioned in Tennyson's well-known
poem, would then receive her!

And all through the mere failing of a motor-car clutch at that tiny
obscure Belgian village.

The Reverend Thomas gradually grew stronger while guest of Mr
Northover, and both he and the Prince, together with the Northovers, Mr
Henry Ashdown, the assistant manager of the bank who lived on the
premises, and others of the Northovers' friends went for frequent runs
in the nobleman's car.

The Prince never hedged himself in by etiquette.  Every friend of
Northover at once became his friend; hence, within a fortnight, his
Highness was the most popular figure in that quaint old market town.

One afternoon while the Prince and the clergyman were walking together
up the High Street, they passed a thin, pale-faced man in dark grey
flannels.

Glances of recognition were exchanged, but no word was uttered.

"Max is at the `George,' isn't he?" asked the Prince.

"Yes," replied his companion.  "Arrived the night before last, and
having a particularly dull time, I should think."

"So should I," laughed the Prince.

That evening, the two ladies being away at the Milton Hound Show, they
took Northover and his assistant, Ashdown, after their business, over to
Peterborough to bring them back.  Ashdown was some ten years younger
than his chief, and rather fond of his whisky and soda.  At the Great
Northern Hotel in Peterborough they found the ladies; and on their
return to Stamford the whole party dined together at the Prince's hotel,
an old-fashioned hostelry with old-fashioned English fare.

And so another fortnight went past.  The autumn winds grew more chilly,
and the leaves fell with the advance of October.

Nellie constantly met the Prince, in secret, the only person knowing the
truth besides themselves being the Parson, who had now become one of the
girl's particular friends.

While the Prince was dressing for dinner one evening, Charles being
engaged in putting the links in his shirt-cuffs, he suddenly asked:

"Max is still in Stamford, I suppose?"

"I believe so, your Highness."

"Well, I want you to take this up to London to-night, Charles."  And he
drew from a locked drawer a small sealed packet about four inches
square, looking like jewellery.  "You'll see the address on it.  Take it
there, then go to the Suffolk Hotel, in Suffolk Street, Strand, and wait
till I send you instructions to return."

"Very well, your Highness," answered the man who always carried out his
master's instructions with blind obedience.

Next day, in conversation with Mr Northover, the Prince expressed
regret that he had been compelled to discharge his man Charles at a
moment's notice.

"The man is a thief," he said briefly.  "I lost a valuable scarf-pin the
other day--one given me by the Emperor.  But I never suspected him until
a few days ago when I received an anonymous letter telling me that my
trusted man, Charles, had, before I took him into my service, been
convicted of theft, and was, indeed, one of a gang of clever swindlers!
I made inquiries, and discovered this to be the actual truth."

"By Jove!" remarked the Reverend Thomas.  "Think what an escape the
Prince has had!  All his jewellery might have suddenly disappeared!"

"How very fortunate you were warned!" declared Mr Northover.  "Your
correspondent was anonymous, you say?"

"Yes.  Some one must have recognised him in London, I think, and,
therefore, given me warning.  A most disagreeable affair--I assure you."

"Then you've lost the Emperor's present?" asked Nellie.

"Yes," sighed the Prince; "It's gone for ever.  I've given notice to the
police.  They're sending a detective from London to see me, I believe,
but I feel certain I shall never see it again."

This conversation was repeated by Mrs Northover to her husband, when he
returned from business that evening.

About the same hour, however, while the Prince was smoking with his
clerical friend in his private room at the hotel, the waiter entered,
saying that a Mr Mason had called upon his Highness.

"That's the man from Scotland Yard!" exclaimed the Prince aloud.  "Show
him up."

A few moments later a rather pale-faced, fair-haired man in shabby brown
tweeds was ushered in, and the waiter, who knew the story of Charles's
sudden discharge, retired.

"Good evening, Prince," exclaimed the new-comer.  "I got your wire and
came at once."  At the same time he produced from his pocket a small
cartridge envelope containing something slightly bulky, but carefully
sealed.

"Right!  Go over there, Max, and help yourself to a drink.  You're at
the `George,' I suppose?"

"No.  I've got a room here--so as to be near you--in case of necessity,
you know," he added meaningly.

The two men exchanged glances.

It was evident at once that Mr Mason was no stranger, for he helped
himself to a cigarette uninvited, and, mixing a small drink, drained it
off at a single gulp.

Then, after chatting for a quarter of an hour or so, he went out "just
to get a wash," as he put it.

The Prince, when he had gone, turned over the small packet in his hand
without opening it.

Then he rose, walked to the window, and in silence looked out upon the
old church opposite, deep in thought.

The Parson, watching him without a word, knit his brows, and pursed his
lips.

Next morning the Prince sent Garrett with the car to London, as he
wanted some alteration to the hood, and that afternoon, as he crossed
the marketplace, he again met Max.  Neither spoke.  A glance of
recognition was all that passed between them.  Meanwhile, the detective
from London had been making a good many inquiries in Stamford,
concerning the associates and friends of the discharged valet Charles.

The latter was, the detective declared, an old hand, and his Highness
had been very fortunate in getting rid of him when he did.

That evening Mr and Mrs Ashdown invited the Prince and the clergyman
to dinner, at which they were joined by the sweet-faced Nellie and her
father and mother.  With true provincial habit, the party broke up at
ten-thirty, and while the Parson walked home with the Northovers, his
Highness lit a cigar and strolled back to the hotel alone.

Until nearly two o'clock he sat smoking, reading, and thinking--thinking
always of pretty Nellie--and now and then glancing at the clock.  After
the church-bell had struck two he had a final "peg," and then turned in.

Next morning, when the waiter brought his coffee, the man blurted forth
breathlessly:

"There's been a great robbery, your Highness, last night.  The London
and North Western Bank has been entered, and they say that four thousand
pounds in gold has been stolen."

"What!" gasped the Prince, springing up.  "Mr Northover's bank?"

"Yes, sir.  The whole town is in an uproar!  I've told Mr Mason, and
he's gone down to see.  They say that a week ago a youngish man from
London took the empty shop next door to the bank, and it's believed the
thieves were secreted in there.  There doesn't seem any evidence of any
of the locks being tampered with, for the front door was opened with a
key, and they had keys of both the doors of the strong-room.  The police
are utterly mystified, for Mr Northover has one key, and Mr Ashdown
the other, and the doors can't be opened unless they are both there
together.  Both gentlemen say their keys have never left them, and none
of the burglar-alarms rang."

"Then it's an absolute mystery--eh," remarked the Prince, utterly
astonished.  "Perhaps that scoundrel Charles has had something to do
with it!  He went to the bank for me on several occasions!"

"That's what Mr Mason and the other police officers think, sir," the
waiter said.  "And it seems that the men must have got out the coin,
brought it into the empty shop, carried it through the back of the
premises and packed it into a dark-green motor-car.  A policeman out on
the Worthorpe Road, saw the car pass just before two o'clock this
morning.  There were two men in it, besides the driver."

The Prince dressed hastily, and was about to rush down to the bank to
condole with Northover when the latter burst into his room in a great
state of mind.

"It's an absolute mystery, and so daring!" he declared.  "The thieves
must have had duplicate keys of the whole bank!  They left all the
notes, but cleared out every bit of gold coin.  We had some unusually
heavy deposits lately, and they've taken three thousand four hundred and
thirty-two pounds!"

"What about that man who took the shop next door?"

"He's perfectly respectable, the police assure me.  He knows nothing
about it.  He's hardly finished stocking the place with groceries, and
opens the day after to-morrow.  His name is Newman."

"Then how did they get their booty away?"

"That's the mystery.  Unless through the back of the shop next door.  No
motor-car came along the street in the night, for Ashdown's child was
ill, and Mrs Ashdown was up all night and heard nothing.  The means by
which they got such a heavy lot of coin away so neatly is as mysterious
as how they obtained the keys."

"Depend upon it that my scoundrelly valet has had a finger in this!" the
Prince declared.  "I'll assist you to try and find him.  I happen to
know some of his friends in London."

Northover was delighted, and at the police-station the superintendent
thanked his Highness for his kind promise of assistance.  Mr Mason was
ubiquitous, and the parson full of astonishment at the daring coup of
the unknown thieves.  Two bank directors came down from town in the
afternoon, and after a discussion, a full report was telegraphed to New
Scotland Yard.

That same evening the Prince went up to London, accompanied by the
keen-eyed Mr Mason, leaving the Parson still the guest of Mr
Northover.

The latter, however, would scarcely have continued to entertain him, had
he known that, on arrival at King's Cross, his Highness and Mr Mason
took a cab to a certain house in Hereford Road, Bayswater, where Charles
and Garrett were eagerly awaiting him.  In the room were two other men
whom the Prince shook by the hand and warmly congratulated.

Charles opened the door of the adjoining room, a poorly furnished
bedroom, where stood a chest of drawers.  One drawer after the other he
opened.

They were full of bags of golden sovereigns!

"Those impressions you sent us, Prince, gave us a lot of trouble,"
declared the elder of the two men, with a pronounced American accent.
"The keys were very difficult to make, and when you sent us word that
the parson had tried them and they wouldn't act, we began to fear that
it was no go.  But we did the trick all right, after all, didn't we?
Guess we spent a pretty miserable week in Stamford, but you seemed to be
having quite a good time.  Where's the Sky-pilot?"

"He's remaining--convalescent, you know.  And as for Bob Newman, he'll
be compelled to carry on that confounded grocery business next door for
at least a couple of months--before he fails, and shuts up."

"Well," exclaimed the man Mason, whom everybody in Stamford--even the
police themselves--believed to be a detective.  "It was a close shave!
You know, Prince, when you came out of the bank after dinner and I
slipped in past you, I only just got into the shadow before that slip of
a girl of Northover's ran down the stairs after you.  I saw you give her
a kiss in the darkness."

"She deserved a kiss, the little dear," replied his Highness, "for
without her we could never have brought off so complete a thing."

"Ah! you always come in for the good things," Charles remarked.

"Because I'm a prince," was his Highness's reply.

The police are still looking for the Prince's valet, and his Highness
has, of course, assisted them.  Charles, however, got away to Copenhagen
to a place of complete safety, and he being the only person suspected,
it is very unlikely that the bank will ever see their money again--
neither is Nellie Northover ever likely to see her prince.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE MYSTERIOUS SIXTY.

When the smart chauffeur, Garrett, entered the cosy chambers of his
Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, alias Charles Fotheringham,
alias Henry Tremlett, in Dover Street, Piccadilly, he found him
stretched lazily on the couch before the fire.  He had exchanged his
dinner jacket for an easy coat of brown velvet; between his lips was a
Russian cigarette of his pet brand, and at his elbow a brandy and soda.

"Ah!  Garrett," he exclaimed as the chauffeur entered.  "Come here, and
sit down.  Shut the door first.  I want to talk to you."

As chauffeur to the Prince and his ingenious companions, Garrett had met
with many queer adventures and been in many a tight corner.  To this day
he wonders he was not "pinched" by the police a dozen times, and
certainly would have been if it were not that the gay, good-looking,
devil-may-care Prince Albert never left anything to chance.  When a
_coup_ was to be made he thought out every minute detail, and took
precaution against every risk of detection.  To his marvellous ingenuity
and wonderful foresight Garrett, with his friends, owed his liberty.

During the three years through which he had thrown in his lot with that
select little circle of "crooks," he had really had a very interesting
time, and had driven them thousands of miles, mostly on the Continent,
in the big "Mercedes" or the "sixty" six-cylinder "Minerva."

His Highness's share in the plunder had been very considerable.  At his
bankers he possessed quite a respectable balance, and he lived in easy
affluence the life of a prince.  In the drawing-rooms of London and
Paris he was known as essentially a ladies' man; while in Italy he was
usually Henry Tremlett, of London, and in France he was Charles
Fotheringham, an Anglo-Frenchman and Chevalier of the Legion d'Honneur.

"Look here, Garrett," he said, raising himself on his elbow and looking
the man in the face as he tossed his cigarette in the grate.  "To-day,
let's see, is December 16.  You must start in the car to-morrow for San
Remo.  We shall spend a week or two there."

"To-morrow!" the chauffeur echoed.  "The roads from Paris down to the
Riviera are pretty bad just now.  I saw in the paper yesterday that
there's heavy snow around Valence."

"Snow, or no snow, we must go," the Prince said decisively.  "We have a
little matter in hand down there--you understand?" he remarked, his dark
eyes still fixed upon the chauffeur.

The man wondered what was the nature of the _coup_ intended.

"And now," he went on, "let me explain something else.  There may be
some funny proceedings down at San Remo.  But just disregard everything
you see, and don't trouble your head about the why, or wherefore.
You're paid to be chauffeur, Garrett--and paid well, too, by your share
of the profits--so nothing else concerns you.  It isn't, sparklers we're
after this time--it's something else."

The Prince who, speaking English so well, turned his birth and standing
to such good account, never told the chauffeur of his plans.  His
confederates, indeed, were generally kept completely in the dark until
the very last moment.  Therefore, they were all very frequently puzzled
by what seemed to be extraordinary and motiveless actions by the leader
of the party of adventurers.

The last _coup_ made was in the previous month, at Aix-les-Bains, the
proceeds being sold to the old Jew in Amsterdam for four thousand pounds
sterling, this sum being divided up between the Prince, the Parson, a
neat-ankled little Parisienne named Valentine Dejardin, and Garrett.
And they were now going to spend a week or two in that rather dull and
much over-rated little Italian seaside town, where the sharper and crook
flourish to such a great extent in spring--San Remo.

They were evidently about to change their tactics, for it was not
diamonds they were after, but something else.  Garrett wondered as the
Count told him to help himself to a whisky and soda what that "something
else" would turn out to be.

"I daresay you'll be a bit puzzled," he said, lazily lighting a fresh
cigarette, "but don't trouble your head about the why or wherefore.
Leave that to me.  Stay at the Hotel Regina at San Remo--that big place
up on the hill--you know it.  You'll find the Parson there.  Let's see,
when we were there a year ago I was Tremlett, wasn't I?--so I must be
that again, I suppose."

He rose from his couch, stretched himself, and pulling a bookcase from
the high old-fashioned wainscoting slid back one of the white enamelled
panels disclosing a secret cavity wherein, Garrett knew, reposed a
quantity of stolen jewels that he had failed to get rid of to the Jew
diamond dealer in Amsterdam, who acted in most cases as receiver.

The chauffeur saw within that small cavity, of about a foot square, a
number of little parcels each wrapped in tissue paper--jewels for which
the police of Europe for a year or so had been hunting high and low.
Putting his hand into the back the Prince produced a bundle of
banknotes, from which he counted one "fifty" and ten fivers, and handed
them to his man.

"They're all right.  You'll want money, for I think that, after all,
you'd better go to San Remo as a gentleman and owner of the car.  Both
the Parson and I will be perfect strangers to you--you understand?"

"Perfectly," was Garrett's reply, as he watched him replace the notes,
push back the panel into its place, and move the bookcase into its
original position.

"Then get away to-morrow night by Newhaven and Dieppe," he said.  "If I
were you I'd go by Valence and Die, instead of by Grenoble.  There's
sure to be less snow there.  Wire me when you get down to Cannes."  And
he pushed across his big silver box of cigarettes, one of which the
chauffeur took, and seating himself, listened to his further
instructions.  They, however, gave no insight into the adventure which
was about to be undertaken.

At half-past seven on the following night, with his smartly-cut clothes
packed in two suit-cases, his chauffeur's dress discarded for a big
leather-lined coat of dark-green frieze and motor-cap and goggles, and a
false number-plate concealed beneath the cushion, Garrett drew the car
out of the garage in Oxford Street, and sped along the Embankment and
over Westminster Bridge on the first stage of his long and lonely
journey.

The night was dark, with threatening rain, but out in the country the
big searchlight shone brilliantly, and he tore along the Brighton road
while the rhythmic splutter of his open exhaust awakened the echoes of
the country-side.  With a loud shriek of the siren he passed village
after village until at Brighton he turned to the left along that very
dangerous switchback road that leads to Newhaven.

How he shipped the car, or how for four weary days--such was the
hopeless state of the roads--he journeyed due south, has no bearing upon
this narrative of an adventurer's adventure.  Fortunately the car ran
magnificently, the engines beating in perfect time against rain and
blizzard, and tyre-troubles were few.  The road--known well to him, for
he had traversed it with the Prince at least a dozen times to and from
Monte Carlo--was snow-covered right from Lyons down to Aix in Provence,
making progress difficult, and causing him constant fear lest he should
run into some deep drift.

At last, however, in the bright Riviera sunshine, so different to the
London weather he had left behind five days ago, and with the turquoise
Mediterranean lying calm and picturesque on his right, he found himself
passing along the Lower Corniche from Nice through Beaulieu, Monaco, and
Mentone to Ventimiglia, the Italian frontier.  Arrived there, he paid
the Customs deposit at the little roadside bureau of the Italian dogana,
got a leaden seal impressed upon the front of the chassis, and drew away
up the hill again for a few short miles through Bordighera and
Ospedaletti to the picturesque little town of San Remo, which so bravely
but vainly endeavours to place itself forward as the Nice of the Italian
Riviera.

The Hotel Regina, the best and most fashionable, stands high above the
sea-road, embowered in palms, oranges, and flowers, and as Garrett
turned with a swing into the gateway and ran up the steep incline on his
"second," his arrival, dirty and travel-worn as he was, caused some stir
among the smartly dressed visitors taking their tea _al fresco_.

With an air of nonchalance the gentleman chauffeur sprang out, gave over
the mud-covered car to a man from the hotel garage, and entering the
place, booked a pretty but expensive sitting-room and bedroom
overlooking the sea.

Having tubbed and exchanged his rough tweeds for grey flannels and a
straw hat, he descended to see if he could find the Parson, who, by the
list in the hall, he saw was among the guests.  He strolled about the
town, and looked in at a couple of _cafes_, but saw nothing of the
Prince's clever confederate.

Not until he went in to dinner did he discover him.

Wearing a faultless clerical collar and perfect-fitting clerical coat,
and on his nose gold pince-nez, he was sitting a few tables away, dining
with two well-dressed ladies--mother and daughter he took them to be,
though afterwards he found they were aunt and niece.  The elder woman,
handsome and well-preserved, evidently a foreigner from her very dark
hair and fine eyes, was dressed handsomely in black, with a bunch of
scarlet roses in her corsage.  As far as Garrett could see, she wore no
jewellery.

The younger of the pair was certainly not more than nineteen,
fair-haired, with a sweet girlish face, blue eyes almost childlike in
their softness, and a pretty dimpled cheek, and a perfectly formed mouth
that invited kisses.  She was in pale carnation--a colour that suited
her admirably, and in her bodice, cut slightly low, was a bunch of those
sweet-smelling flowers which grow in such profusion along the Italian
coast as to supply the European markets in winter.

Both women were looking at Garrett, noticing that he was a fresh
arrival.

In a Riviera hotel, where nearly every guest makes a long stay, a fresh
arrival early in the season is always an event, and he or she is
discussed and criticised, approved or condemned.  Garrett could see that
the two ladies were discussing him with the Reverend Thomas, who glared
at him for a moment through his glasses as though he had never before
seen him in his life, and then with some words to his companions, he
went on eating his fish.

He knew quite well of Garrett's advent, but part of the mysterious game
was that they did not recognise each other.

When dinner was over, and everyone went into the hall to lounge and take
coffee, Garrett inquired of the hall-porter the names of the two ladies
in question.

"The elder one, m'sieur," he replied, in French, in a confidential tone,
"is Roumanian, the Princess Charles of Krajova, and the young lady is
her niece, Mademoiselle Dalrymple."

"Dalrymple!" he echoed.  "Then mademoiselle must be English!"

"Certainly, m'sieur."

And Garrett turned away, wondering with what ulterior object our friend
"the Parson" was ingratiating himself with La Princesse.

Next day, the gay devil-may-care Prince, giving his name as Mr Henry
Tremlett, of London, arrived, bringing the faithful Charles, to whose
keen observation more than one successful _coup_ had owed its genesis.
There were now four of them staying in the hotel, but with what object
Garrett could not discern.

The Prince gave no sign of recognition to the Parson or the chauffeur.
He dined at a little table alone, and was apparently as interested in
the two women as Garrett was himself.

Garrett's main object was to create interest, so acting upon the
instructions the Prince had given him in London, he posed as the owner
of the fine car, swaggered in the hall in his big coat and cap, and took
runs up and down the white winding coast-road, envied by many of the
guests, who, he knew, dearly wanted to explore the beauties of the
neighbourhood.

It was not, therefore, surprising that more than one of the guests of
both sexes got into casual conversation with Garrett, and among them, on
the second day after his arrival, the Princess Charles of Krajova.

She was, he found, an enthusiastic motorist, and as they stood that
sunny afternoon by the car, which was before the hotel, she made many
inquiries regarding the long stretch from Dieppe to the Italian
frontier.  While they were chatting, the Parson, with Mademoiselle
approached.  The Rev Thomas started a conversation, in which the young
lady joined.  The latter Garrett decided was very charming.  Her speech
was that of an educated English girl only lately from her school, yet
she had evidently been well trained for her position in society, and
though so young, carried herself extremely well.

As yet, nobody had spoken to Tremlett.  He seemed to keep himself very
much to himself.  Why, the chauffeur wondered?

That evening he spent in the hall, chatting with the Parson and the
ladies.  He had invited them all to go for a run on the morrow by the
seashore as far as Savona, then inland to Ceva, and back by Ormeo and
Oneglia, and they had accepted enthusiastically.  Then, when aunt and
niece rose to retire, he invited the Rev Thomas up to his sitting-room
for a final whisky and soda.

When they were alone with the door shut, Clayton said:

"Look here, Garrett!  This is a big game we're playing.  The Prince lies
low, while we work it.  To-morrow you must attract the girl, while I
make myself agreeable to the aunt--a very decent old body, after all.
Recollect, you must not fall in love with the girl.  She admires you, I
know."

"Not very difficult to fall in love with her," laughed the other.
"She's uncommonly good-looking."

"Yes, but be careful that you don't make a fool of yourself, and really
allow yourself to be smitten," he urged.

"But what is the nature of this fresh game?"  Garrett inquired, eager to
ascertain what was intended.

"Don't worry about that, my dear fellow," was his reply.  "Only make
love to the girl.  Leave the rest to his Highness and myself."

And so it came about that next day, with the pretty Winnie--for that was
her name--seated at his side, Garrett drove the car along to Savona,
chatting merrily with her, and discovering her to be most _chic_ and
charming.  Her parents lived in London, she informed him, in Queen's
Gate.  Her father was in Parliament, sitting for one of the Welsh
boroughs.

The run was delightful, and was the commencement of a very pleasant
friendship.  He saw that his little friend was in no way averse to a
violent flirtation, and indeed, he spent nearly the whole of the next
morning with her in the garden.

The chauffeur had already disregarded the Parson's advice, and had
fallen desperately in love with her.

As they sat in the garden she told him that her mother was a Roumanian
lady, of Bucharest, whose sister had married the enormously wealthy
landowner, Prince Charles of Krajova.  For the past two years she had
lived in Paris, Vienna and Bucharest, with her aunt, and they were now
at San Remo to spend the whole winter.

"But," she added, with a wistful look, "I far prefer England.  I was at
school at Folkestone, and had a most jolly time there.  I was so sorry
to leave to come out here."

"Then you know but little of London?"

"Very little," she declared.  "I know Folkestone better.  We used to
walk on the Leas every day, or play hockey and tennis.  I miss my games
so very much," she added, raising her fine big eyes to his.

At his invitation she walked down to the town and back before luncheon,
but not without some hesitation, as perhaps she thought her aunt might
not like it.  On the Promenade they met his Highness, but he gave them
no sign of recognition.

"That gentleman is staying at our hotel," she remarked after he had
passed.  "I saw on the list that he is a Mr Tremlett, from London."

"Yes--I also saw that," remarked the chauffeur.  "Looks a decent kind of
fellow."

"Rather a <DW2>, I think," she declared.  "My aunt, however, is anxious to
know him, so if you make his acquaintance, will you please introduce him
to us?"

"I'll be most delighted, of course, Miss Dalrymple," he said, inwardly
congratulating himself upon his good fortune.

And an hour later he wrote a note to the Prince and posted it, telling
him of what the girl had said.

While the Parson monopolised the Princess, Garrett spent most of the
time in the company of Winifred Dalrymple.  That afternoon he took the
Parson and the ladies for a run on the car, and that evening, it being
Christmas Eve, there was a dance, during which he was on several
occasions her partner.

She waltzed splendidly, and Garrett found himself each hour more deeply
in love with her.  During the dance, he managed to feign to scrape
acquaintance with the Prince, and presented him to his dainty little
friend, as well as her aunt, whereat the latter at once went out of her
way to be most gracious and affable.  Already the handsome Tremlett knew
most of the ladies in the hotel, as his coming and going always caused a
flutter within the hearts of the gentler sex, for he was essentially a
ladies' man.  Indeed, to his easy courtly manner towards them was due
the great success of his many ingenious schemes.

He would kiss a woman one moment and rifle her jewel-case the next, so
utterly unscrupulous was he.  He was assuredly a perfect type of the
well-bred, audacious young adventurer.

While the dance was proceeding Garrett was standing with Winifred in the
hall, when they heard the sound of an arriving motor-car coming up the
incline from the road, and going to the door he saw that it was a very
fine sixty horse-power "Fiat" limousine.  There were no passengers, but
the driver was a queer grey-haired, hunchbacked old man.  His face was
splashed, his grey goat's-skin coat was muddy, like the car, for it was
evident that he had come a long distance.

As he entered the big brilliantly-lit hall, his small black eyes cast a
searching look around.  Winifred, whom Garrett was at that moment
leading back to the ballroom, started quickly.  Had she, he wondered,
recognised him?  If so, why had she started.  That she was acquainted
with the stranger, and that she did not wish to meet him he quickly saw,
for a few moments later she whispered something to the Princess, whose
face instantly changed, and the pair pleading fatigue a few minutes
later, ascended in the lift to their own apartments.

So curious was the incident, that Garrett determined to ascertain
something regarding the queer, wizened-faced old hunchback who acted as
chauffeur, but to his surprise when he returned to the hall, he found
the car had already left.  The little old man in the fur motor-coat had
merely called to make inquiry whether a certain German baron was staying
in the hotel, and had then left immediately.

He was much puzzled at the marked uneasiness of both the Princess and
Winifred at the appearance of the mysterious "sixty."  Indeed, he saw
her Highness's maid descend the stairs half an hour later, evidently in
order to gather some facts concerning the movements of the hunchback.
Prince and Parson were both playing bridge, therefore Garrett was unable
to relate to them what he had seen, so he retired to bed wondering what
the truth might really be.

Morning dawned.  The Prince and his friend were both down unusually
early, walking in the garden, and discussing something very seriously.
But its nature they kept from their chauffeur.

The morning he spent with Winifred, who looked very sweet and charming
in her white serge gown, white shoes and big black hat.  They idled in
the garden among the orange groves for an hour, and then walked down to
the town and back.

At luncheon a surprise awaited them, for quite close to Garrett sat the
little old man, clean and well-dressed, eating his meal and apparently
taking no notice of anybody.  Yet he saw what effect the man's presence
had produced upon the Princess and her niece, who having taken their
seats could not well escape.

Where was the big "sixty"?  It was certainly not in the garage at the
hotel!  And why had the old man returned?

Reviewing all the circumstances, together with what the Prince had
explained to him in Dover Street, he found himself utterly puzzled.  The
whole affair was an enigma.  What were the intentions of his ingenious
and unscrupulous friends?  The Prince had, he recollected, distinctly
told him that diamonds were not in the present instance the object of
their manoeuvres.

About three o'clock that afternoon he invited the Princess and her
pretty niece to go out for a run in the car to Taggia, the road to which
first runs along by the sea, and afterwards turns inland up a beautiful
fertile valley.  They accepted, but both Prince and Parson pleaded other
engagements, therefore he took the two ladies alone.

The afternoon was bright and warm, with that blue sky and deep blue sea
which is so characteristic of the Riviera, and the run to Taggia was
delightful.  They had coffee at a clean little osteria--coffee that was
not altogether good, but quite passable--and then with Winifred up
beside him, Garrett started to run home in the sundown.

They had not gone more than a couple of miles when, of a sudden, almost
before he could realise it, Garrett was seized by a contraction of the
throat so violent that he could not breathe.  He felt choking.  The
sensation was most unusual, for he broke out into a cold perspiration,
and his head beginning to reel, he slowed down and put on the brake, for
they were travelling at a brisk pace, but beyond that he remembered
absolutely nothing.  All he knew was that an excruciating pain shot
through his heart, and then in an instant all was blank!

Of only one other thing he had a hazy recollection, and it was this.
Just at the moment when he lost consciousness the girl at his side,
leant towards him, and took the steering-wheel, saying:

"Let go, you fool!--let go, will you!" her words being followed by a
weird peal of laughter.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The darkness was impenetrable.  For many hours Garrett had remained
oblivious to everything.  Yet as he slowly struggled back to
consciousness he became aware that his legs were benumbed, and that
water was lapping about him.  He was lying in a cramped position, so
cramped that to move was impossible.  He was chilled to the bone.  For a
full hour he lay half-conscious, and wondering.  The pains in his head
were awful.  He raised his hand, and discovered a nasty wound upon his
left temple.  Then he at last realised the astounding truth.  He was
lying upon rocks on the seashore, and it was night!  How long he had
been there, or how he had come there he had no idea.

That woman's laughter rang in his ears.  It was a laugh of triumph, and
caused him to suspect strongly that he had been the victim of feminine
treachery.  But with what motive?

Was it possible that at Taggia, while he had been outside looking around
the car, something had been placed in his coffee!  He recollected that
it tasted rather bitter.  But where was the car?  Where were the
Princess and her pretty niece?

It was a long time before his cramped limbs were sufficiently supple to
enable him to walk, and then in the faint grey dawn he managed to crawl
along a white unfamiliar high road that ran beside the rocky shore.  For
nearly two hours he walked in his wet clothes until he came to a tiny
town which he discovered, was called Voltri, and was quite a short
distance from Genoa.

The fascinating Winifred had evidently driven the car with his
unconscious form covered up in the tonneau for some time before the pair
had deposited him in the water, their intention being that the sea
should itself dispose of his body.

For an hour he remained in the little inn drying his clothes and having
his wound attended to, and then when able to travel, he took train back
to San Remo, arriving late in the afternoon.  He found to his
astonishment he had remained unconscious at the edge of the tideless sea
for about thirty hours.

His bandaged head was put down by the guests as due to an accident in
the car, for he made no explanation.  Presently, however, the hotel
proprietor came to his room, and asked the whereabouts of the Princess
and her niece, as they had not been seen since they left with him.  In
addition, the maid had suddenly disappeared, while the party owed a
little bill of nearly one hundred pounds sterling.

"And Mr Tremlett?"  Garrett asked.  "He is still here, of course?"

"No, signore," was the courtly Italian's reply.  "He left in a motor-car
with Mr Clayton and his valet late the same night."

Their destination was unknown.  The little old hunchback had also left,
Garrett was informed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week later, as Garrett entered the cosy sitting-room in Dover Street
the Prince sprang from his chair, exclaiming:

"By Jove, Garrett!  I'm glad to see you back.  We began to fear that
you'd met with foul play.  What happened to you?  Sit down, and tell me.
Where's the car?"

The chauffeur was compelled to admit his ignorance of its whereabouts,
and then related his exciting and perilous adventure.

"Yes," replied the handsome young adventurer, gaily.  "It was a crooked
bit of business, but we needn't trouble further about the car, Garrett,
for the fact is we've exchanged our `forty' for that old hunchback's
mysterious `sixty.'  It's at Meunier's garage in Paris.  But, of
course," he laughed, "you didn't know who the hunchback really was.  It
was Finch Grey."

"Finch Grey!" gasped Garrett, amazed, for he was the most renowned and
expert thief in the whole of Europe.

"Yes," he said, "we went to San Remo to meet him.  It was like this.
The Reverend Thomas was in Milan and got wind of a little _coup_ at the
Banca d'Italia which Finch Grey had arranged.  The plot was one night to
attack the strong-room of the bank, a tunnel to which had already been
driven from a neighbouring house.  The proceeds of this robbery--notes
and gold--were to be brought down to San Remo by Finch Grey in his
`sixty,' the idea being to then meet the Princess and her niece, who
were really only members of his gang.  Our idea was to get friendly with
the two ladies, so that when the car full of gold and notes arrived we
should have an opportunity of getting hold of it.  Our plans, however,
were upset in two particulars, by the fact that a few days prior to my
arrival the pair had quarrelled with the old hunchback, and secondly,
because a friend of the Princess's, staying at the hotel, had recognised
you as a `crook.'  By some means the two women suspected that, on Finch
Grey's appearance, our intention was either to demand part of the
proceeds of the bank robbery or expose them to the police.  Therefore
they put something in your coffee, the girl drove the car to the spot
where you found yourself, and then they escaped to Genoa, and on to
Rome.  Finch Grey, who did not know who we were, was highly concerned
with us regarding the non-return of the ladies.  We suggested that we
should go out in his `sixty' with him to search for them, and he,
fearing that you had met with an accident, consented.  The rest was
easy," he laughed.

"How?"

"Well, we let him get half way to Oneglia, when we just slipped a
handkerchief with a little perfume upon it, over his nose and mouth, and
a few minutes later we laid him quietly down behind a wall.  Then I
turned the car back to where we had previously stored some pots of white
paint and a couple of big brushes, and in an hour had transformed the
colour of the car and changed its identification-plates.  Imagine our
joy when we found the back locker where the tools should have been
crammed with bags of gold twenty lire pieces, while under the inside
seat we found a number of neat packets of fifty and one-hundred and
five-hundred lire notes.  Just after midnight we slipped back through
San Remo, and two days ago arrived safely in Paris with our valuable
freight.  Like to see some of it?" he added, and rising he pushed back
the bookcase, opened the panel and took out several bundles of Italian
notes.  I saw also within a number of small canvas bags of gold.

"By this time, Garrett," he added, laughing and pouring me out a drink,
"old Finch Grey is gnashing his teeth, for he cannot invoke the aid of
the police, and the women who intended to be avenged upon us for our
daring are, no doubt, very sorry they ran away with our car, which,
after all, was not nearly such a good one as the mysterious `sixty.'
Theirs wasn't a particularly cheery journey, was it?" and lifting his
glass he added, "So let's wish them very good luck!"

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE MAN WITH THE RED CIRCLE.

Another story related by Garrett, the chauffeur, is worth telling, for
it is not without its humorous side.

It occurred about six weeks after the return of the party from San Remo.

It was dismal and wet in London, one of those damp yellow days with
which we, alas I are too well acquainted.

About two o'clock in the afternoon, attired in yellow fishermen's
oil-skins instead of his showy grey livery, Garrett sat at the wheel of
the new "sixty" six-cylinder car of Finch Grey's outside the Royal
Automobile Club, in Piccadilly, bade adieu to the exemplary Bayswater
parson, who stood upon the steps, and drew along to the corner of Park
Lane, afterwards turning towards the Marble Arch, upon the first stage
of a long and mysterious journey.

When it is said that the journey was a mysterious one Garrett was
compelled to admit that, ever since he had been in the service of Prince
Albert of Hesse-Holstein his journeys had been made for the most part
with a motive that, until the moment of their accomplishment, remained
to him a mystery.  His employer gave him orders, but he never allowed
him to know his plans.  He was paid to hold his tongue and obey.  What
mattered if his Highness, who was such a well-known figure in the world
of automobilism was not a Highness at all; or whether the Rev Thomas
Clayton held no clerical charge in Bayswater.  He, Garrett, was the
Prince's chauffeur, paid to close his ears and his eyes to everything
around him, and to drive whatever lady who might be in the car hither
and thither, just as his employer or his audacious friends required.

For two years his life had been one of constant change, as these secret
records show.  In scarcely a country in Europe he had not driven, while
fully half a dozen times he had driven between Boulogne and the "Place"
at Monte Carlo, four times from Calais due east to Berlin, as well as
some highly exciting runs over certain frontiers when compelled to evade
the officers of the law.

The good-looking Prince Albert, whose real name was hidden in obscurity,
but who was best known as Tremlett, Burchell-Laing, Drummond, Lord
Nassington, and half a dozen other aliases, constantly amazed and
puzzled the police.  Leader of that small circle of bold and ingenious
men, he provided the newspapers with sensational gossip from time to
time, exploits in which he usually made use of one or other of his
high-power cars, and in which there was invariably a lady in the car.

Prince Albert was nothing if not a ladies' man, and in two years had
owned quite a dozen cars of different makes with identification plates
innumerable, most of them false.

His Highness, who always found snobs to bow and dust his boots, and who
took good care to prey upon their snobbishness, was a perfect marvel of
cunning.  His cool audacity was unequalled.  The times which he passed
unsuspected and unidentified beneath the very noses of the police were
innumerable, while the times in which Garrett had been in imminent peril
of arrest were not a few.

The present journey was, however, to say the least, a very mysterious
one.

That morning at ten o'clock he had sat, as usual, in the cosy chambers
in Dover Street.  His Highness had given him a cigar, and treated him as
an equal, as he did always when they were alone.

"You must start directly after lunch for the Highlands, Garrett," he had
said suddenly, his dark, clearly defined brows slightly knit.  He was
still in his velvet smoking-jacket, and smoked incessantly his brown
"Petroffs."

"I know," he went on, "that the weather is wretched--but it is
imperative.  We must have the car up there."

Garrett was disappointed, for they were only just back from Hamburg, and
he had expected at least to spend a few days with his own people down at
Surbiton.

"What?" he asked, "another _coup_?"  His Highness smiled meaningly.

"We've got a rather ticklish piece of work before us, Garrett," he said,
contemplating the end of his cigar.  "There's a girl in it--a very
pretty little girl.  And you'll have to make a lot of love to her--you
understand?"  And the gay nonchalant fellow laughed as his eyes raised
themselves to the chauffeur's.

"Well," remarked the man, somewhat surprised.  "You make a much better
lover than I do.  Remember the affair of the pretty Miss Northover?"

"Yes, yes!" he exclaimed impatiently.  "But in this affair it's
different.  I have other things to do besides love-making.  She'll have
to be left to you.  I warn you, however, that the dainty Elfrida is a
dangerous person--so don't make a fool of yourself, Garrett."

"Dangerous?" he echoed.

"I mean dangerously attractive, that's all.  Neither she, nor her
people, have the least suspicion.  The Blair-Stewarts, of Glenblair
Castle, up in Perthshire, claim to be one of the oldest families in the
Highlands.  The old fellow made his money at shipbuilding, over at
Dumbarton, and bought back what may be, or may not be, the family
estate.  At any rate, he's got pots of the needful, and I, having met
him with his wife and daughter this autumn at the `Excelsior,' at Aix,
am invited up there to-morrow to spend a week or so.  I've consented if
I may go _incognito_ as Mr Drummond."

"And I go to take the car up?"

"No.  You go as Herbert Hebberdine, son of old Sir Samuel Hebberdine,
the banker of Old Broad Street, a young man sowing his wild oats and a
motor enthusiast, as every young man is more or less nowadays," he
laughed.  "You go as owner of the car.  To Mrs Blair-Stewart I
explained long ago that you were one of my greatest friends, so she has
asked me to invite you, and I've already accepted in your name."

"But I'm a stranger!" protested Garrett.

"Never mind, my dear fellow," laughed the audacious Prince.  "Clayton
will be up there too.  It's he who knows the people, and is working the
game pretty cleverly."

"Is it jewels?" asked the chauffeur in a low voice.

"No, it just isn't, this time!  You're mistaken, as you always are when
you're too inquisitive.  Garrett, it's something better," he answered.
"All you've got to do is to pretend to be smitten by the girl.  She's a
terrible little flirt, so you won't have very much difficulty.  You make
the running, and leave all the rest to me."  His master, having shown
him on the map where Glenblair was situated, half way between Stirling
and Perth, added:

"I'll go up to-night, and you'll be there in three days' time.
Meanwhile I'll sing your praises, and you'll receive a warm welcome from
everybody when you arrive.  Take your decent kit with you, and act the
gentleman.  There's a level thousand each for us if we bring it off
properly.  But," he added, with further injunctions not to fall
genuinely in love with the pretty Elfrida, "the whole thing rests upon
you.  The girl must be devoted to you--otherwise we can't work the
trick."

"What _is_ the trick?" asked Garrett, his curiosity aroused.

"Never mind what it is, Garrett," he said, rising to dismiss him.

"Have your lunch and get away.  You've five hundred miles of bad roads
and new metal before you, so the sooner you're off the better.  Call and
see Clayton at his rooms.  He's got a bag, or something, to put in the
car, I think.  When we meet in Scotland, recollect that I'm Prince
Albert _incognito_.  We were at Bonn together, and have been friends for
many years.  Good luck to you!"

And with that he left the Prince's cosy rooms, and soon found himself
out in Dover Street again, much puzzled.

The real object of his visit and his flirtation at a Scotch castle
filled his mind as, in the dull light of that fading afternoon, he swept
along the muddy Great North Road his exhaust opened and roaring as he
went ascending through Whetstone and Barnet in the direction of
Hatfield.  The "sixty" repainted cream with narrow gilt lines upon it
certainly presented a very smart appearance, but in the back he had a
couple of false number-plates, together with three big pots of
dark-green enamel and a brush, so that if occasion arose, as it had
arisen more than once, he could run up a by-road, and in an hour
transform its appearance, so that its own maker would scarcely recognise
it.

In the grey twilight as he approached Hitchin, swinging round those
sharp corners at a speed as high as he dared, it poured with rain again,
and he was compelled to lower the wind-screen and receive the full brunt
of the storm, so blurred became everything through the sheet of
plate-glass.  The old "Sun" at Hitchin reached, he got a drink, lit his
head-lamps, and crossing the marketplace, pushed forward, a long and
monotonous run up Alconbury Hill and through Wansford to Stamford where,
at the Stamford Hotel--which recalled memories of the Northovers--he ate
a cold dinner and rested for an hour over a cigar.

Many were the exciting adventures he had had while acting as chauffeur
to his Highness, but his instructions that morning had somehow filled
him with unusual misgiving.  He was on his way to pretend to make love
to a girl whom he had never seen, the daughter of a millionaire
shipbuilder, a man who, as the Prince had informed him, had risen from a
journeyman, and like so many others who make money, had at once looked
round for a ready-made pedigree, and its accompanying estate.  Heraldry
and family trees seem to exercise a strange and unaccountable
fascination for the parvenu.

As he pushed north, on through that long dark night in the teeth of a
bitter northeaster and constant rain, his mind was full of the
mysterious _coup_ which his Highness and his friend were about to
attempt.  Jewels and money were usually what they were in search of, but
on this occasion it was something else.  What it was, his Highness had
flatly refused to tell.

Aided by the Rev Thomas Clayton, one of the cleverest impostors who
ever evaded the police, his Highness's successes had been little short
of marvellous.  His audacity was unparalleled.  The Parson, who lived
constantly in that smug circle wherein moved the newly-rich, usually
marked down the victim, introduced his Highness, or the fascinating Mr
Tremlett, and left the rest to the young cosmopolitan's tact and
ingenuity.  Their aliases were many, while the memory of both Tremlett
and Clayton for faces was extraordinary.  A favourite pose of the Prince
was that of military _attache_ in the service of the German Government,
and this self-assumed profession often gained him admission to the most
exclusive circles here, and on the Continent.

Garrett's alias of Herbert Hebberdine he had assumed on one or two
previous occasions--once at Biarritz, when his Highness successfully
secured the splendid pearl necklace of the Duchess of Taormino, and
again a few months later at Abbazia, on the beautiful shore of the
Adriatic.  On both occasions their _coup_ had been brought off without a
hitch, he recollected.  Therefore, why should he, on this occasion,
become so foolishly apprehensive?

He could not tell.  He tried to analyse his feelings as, hour after
hour, he sat at the wheel, tearing along that dark, wet, endless highway
due north towards York.  But all in vain.  Over him seemed to have
spread a shadow of impending evil, and try how he would, he could not
shake off the uncomfortable feeling that he was rushing into some grave
peril from which he was destined not to escape.

To describe in detail that wet, uncomfortable run from Hyde Park Corner
to Edinburgh would serve no purpose in this little chronicle of an
exciting chapter of an adventurous life.  Suffice it to say that, late
in the night of the second day after leaving London, he drew up before
the North British Hotel, in Prince's Street, glad of shelter from the
icy blast.  A telegram from his Highness ordered him to arrive at the
castle on the following evening; therefore, just as dusk was falling, he
found himself before the lodge-gates of the splendid domain of the laird
of Glenblair, and a moment later turned into the drive which ascended
for more than a mile through an avenue of great bare beeches and oaks,
on the one side a dense wood, and on the other a deep, beautiful glen,
where, far below, rippled a burn with many picturesque cascades.

Once or twice he touched the button of the electric horn to give warning
of his approach, when suddenly the drive took a wide curve and opened
out before a splendid old mansion in the Scotch baronial style, situated
amid the most romantic and picturesque scenery it had ever been his lot
to witness.

At the door, brought out by the horn, stood his Highness, in a smart
suit of blue serge, and the Parson, in severe clerical garb and
pince-nez, while with them stood two women, one plump, elderly, and
grey-haired, in a dark gown, the other a slim figure in cream with wavy
chestnut hair, and a face that instantly fascinated the new-comer.

As he alighted from the car and drew off his fur glove the Prince--who
was staying _incognito_ as Mr Drummond--introduced him to his hostess,
before whom he bowed, while she, in turn, said:

"This is my daughter, Elfrida--Mr Hebberdine."

Garrett bowed again.  Their eyes met, and next instant the young man
wished heartily that he had never come there.  The Prince had not
exaggerated her beauty.  She was absolutely perfect.  In all the years
he had been a wanderer he had never seen such dainty _chic_, such tiny
hands and feet, or such a sweet face with its soft pink cheeks and its
red lips made for kisses.  She could not have been more than eighteen or
so, yet about her was none of the _gaucherie_ of the school-girl.  He
noticed that she dropped her eyes quickly, and upon her cheeks arose
just the _soupcon_ of a blush.

"Had a good run, Herbert?" asked the Prince as he entered the big hall
of the castle.

"Not very.  The roads were infernally bad in places," replied the other,
"and the new metal between York and Newcastle is most annoying."

"Good car, that of yours!" remarked the Parson, as though he had never
seen it before, while his Highness declared that a six-cylinder was
certainly the best of all.

After a whisky and soda, brought by the grave, antiquated butler,
Garrett drove the car round to the garage some little distance from the
house, where he found three fine cars belonging to his host.

Then, as he went to his room to change for dinner, he passed his
Highness on the stairs.

"The game's quite easy," whispered the latter as he halted for a second.
"It remains for you to make the running with Elfrida.  Only be careful.
Old Blair-Stewart is pretty sly--as you'll see."

At dinner in the long old-fashioned panelled room, hung with the
portraits of what were supposed to be the ancestors of the
Blair-Stewarts of Glenblair, Garrett first met the rather stout,
coarse-featured shipbuilder who had assumed the head of that historic
house, and had bought the estate at three times its market value.  From
the first moment of their meeting Garrett saw that he was a blatant
parvenu of the worst type, for he began to talk of "my hothouses," "my
motors," and "my yacht" almost in the first five minutes of their
conversation.

The party numbered about fifteen at dinner, and he had the good fortune
to be placed next the dainty little girl in turquoise towards whom the
part allotted to him was to act as lover.

She was, he saw, of very different type to her father.  She had been at
school in Versailles, and afterwards had studied music in Dresden she
told him, and she could, he found, speak three languages quite well.
She had apparently put off her school-girl shyness when she put up her
hair, and indeed she struck him as being an amusing little friend to any
man.  Motoring was her chief hobby.  She could drive one of her father's
cars, a "sixteen-twenty" herself, and often did so.  Therefore they were
soon upon a topic in which they were mutually enthusiastic.

A yellow-haired, thin-faced young man of elegant appearance, for he had
a velvet collar to his dress-coat and amethyst buttons to his vest, was
looking daggers at them.  From that Garrett concluded that Archie Gould
was the lover of the winning Elfrida, and that he did not approve of
their mutual merriment.  The Parson, who said grace, was a perfect
example of decorum, and was making himself delightful to his hostess,
while his Highness was joking with a pretty little married woman who,
without doubt, was full of admiration of his handsome face.

What would the good people of Glenblair have thought had they been aware
of the identity of the trio they were entertaining at their table?  As
Garrett reflected, he smiled within himself.  His fellow guests were
mostly wealthy people, and as he looked around the table he saw several
pieces of jewellery, necklets, pendants and the like for which the old
Jew in the Kerk Straat at Amsterdam would have given them very fair
prices.

If jewellery was not the object of their visit, then what was?

Two days passed, and Garrett took Elfrida and the Prince for several
runs on the "sixty," much to the girl's delight.  He watched closely the
actions of his two companions, but could detect nothing suspicious.
Blair-Stewart's wife was a quaint old crow with a faint suspicion of a
moustache, who fancied herself hugely as wife of the wealthy laird of
Glenblair.  She was busy visiting the poor of the grey straggling
Highland village, and his Highness, flattering her vanity, was assisting
her.  Next to the Prince, the Parson was the most prominent person in
the house-party, and managed to impress on every occasion his own
importance upon the company.

With the dainty Elfrida, Garrett got on famously, much to the chagrin
and disgust of her yellow-headed young admirer, Gould, who had recently
inherited his father's estate up in Inverness-shire, and who it was
currently reported, was at that moment engaged in the interesting
occupation of "going through" it.

Elfrida, though extremely pretty, with a soft natural beauty all her
own, was an essentially out-door girl.  It being a hard frost, they had
been out together on the "sixty" in the morning, and later she had been
teaching him curling on the curling-pond in the park, and initiated him
into the mysteries of "elbow in" and "elbow out."  Indeed, every
afternoon the whole party curled, a big bonfire being lit on the side of
the pond, and tea being taken in the open.  He had never practised the
sport of casting those big round stones along the ice before, but he
found it most invigorating and amusing, especially when he had as
instructress such a charming and delightful little companion.

Just as the crimson light of sundown was tinting the snow with its
blood-red glow one afternoon, she suddenly declared her intentions to
return to the house, whereupon he offered to escort her.  As soon,
however, as they were away from the rest of the party she left the path
by which they were approaching the avenue, saying that there was a
shorter cut to the castle.  It was then that they found themselves
wandering over the snow in the centre of a leafless forest, where the
deep crimson afterglow gleamed westward among the black trunks of the
trees, while the dead silence of winter was upon everything.

Garrett was laughing with her, as was his habit, for their flirtation
from the first had been a desperate one.  At eighteen, a girl views
nothing seriously, except her hobbies.  As they walked together she
presented a very neat-ankled and dainty appearance in her short blue
serge skirt, little fur bolero, blue French _beret_, and thick white
gloves.  In the brief time he had been her father's guest, he had not
failed to notice how his presence always served to heighten the colour
of her cheeks, or how frequently she met him as if by accident in all
sorts of odd and out-of-the-way corners.  He was not sufficiently
conceited to imagine that she cared for him any more than she did for
young Gould, though he never once saw him with her.  He would scowl at
them across the table; that was all.

Of a sudden, as they went on through the leafless wood she halted, and
looking into his face with her beautiful eyes, exclaimed with a girl's
frankness:

"I wonder, Mr Hebberdine, if I might trust you?--I mean if you would
help me?"

"Trust me!" he echoed very surprised, as their acquaintanceship had been
of such short duration.  "If you repose any confidence in me, Miss
Blair-Stewart, I assure you I shall respect its _secrecy_."

Her eyes met his, and he was startled to see in them a look of
desperation such as he had not seen in any woman's gaze before.  In that
moment the mask seemed to have fallen from her, and she stood there
before him craving his pity and sympathy--his sympathy above that of all
other men!

Was not his position a curious one?  The very girl whom he had come to
trick and to deceive was asking him to accept her confidences.

"You are very kind indeed to say that," she exclaimed, her face
brightening.  "I hardly know whether I dare ask you to stand my friend,
for we've only known each other two or three days."

"Sufficiently long, Miss Elfrida, to win me as your faithful champion,"
the young man declared, whereupon her cheeks were again suffused by a
slight flush.

"Well, the fact is," she said with charming bluntness, "though I have
lots of girl friends, I have no man friend."

"There is Archie Gould," he remarked, "I thought he was your friend!"

"He's merely a silly boy," she laughed.  "I said a man friend--like
yourself."

"Why are you so anxious to have one?"

She hesitated.  Her eyes were fixed upon the spotless snow at their
feet, and he saw that she held her breath in hesitation.

"Men friends are sometimes dangerous, you know," he laughed.

"Not if the man is a true gentleman," was her rather disconcerting
answer.  Then, raising her eyes again, and gazing straight into his face
she asked, "Will you really be my friend?"

"As I've already said, I'd only be too delighted.  What do you want me
to do?"

"I--I want you to help me, and--and to preserve my secret."

"What secret?" he inquired, surprised that a girl of her age should
possess a secret.

He saw the sudden change in her countenance.  Her lips were trembling,
the corners of her mouth hardened, and, without warning, she buried her
face in her hands and burst into tears.

"Oh! come, come, Elfrida!" he exclaimed quickly, placing his hand
tenderly upon her shoulder.  "No, don't give way like this!  I am your
friend, and will help you in what ever way you desire, if you will tell
me all about it.  You are in distress.  Why?  Confide in me now that I
have promised to stand your friend."

"And--and you promise," she sobbed.  "You promise to be my friend--
whatever happens."

"I promise," he said, perhaps foolishly.  "Whatever happens you may rely
upon my friendship."

Then, next instant, his instructions from his Highness flashed across
his mind.  He was there for some secret reason to play a treacherous
part--that of the faithless lover.

She stood immovable, dabbing her eyes with a little wisp of lace.  He
was waiting for her to reveal the reason of her unhappiness.  But she
suddenly walked on mechanically, in her eyes a strange look of terror,
nay of despair.

He strode beside her, much puzzled at her demeanour.  She wished to tell
him something of which she was ashamed.  Only the desperation of her
position prompted her to make the admission, and seek his advice.

They had gone, perhaps, three hundred yards still in the wood.  The
crimson light had faded, and the December dusk was quickly darkening, as
it does in Scotland, when again she halted and faced him, saying in a
faltering tone:

"Mr Hebberdine, I--I do hope you will not think any the worse of me--I
mean, I hope you won't think me fast, when I tell you that I--well,
somehow, I don't know how it is--but I feel that Fate has brought you
here purposely to be my friend--_and to save me_!"

"To save you!" he echoed.  "What do you mean?  Be more explicit."

"I know my words must sound very strange to you.  But it is the truth!
Ah!" she cried, "you cannot know all that I am suffering--or of the
deadly peril in which I find myself.  It is because of that, I ask the
assistance of you--an honest man."

Honest!  Save the mark!  He foresaw himself falling into some horrible
complication, but the romance of the situation, together with the
extreme beauty of his newly found little friend held the young man
fascinated.

"I cannot be of assistance, Miss Elfrida, until I know the truth."

"If we are to be friends you must call me Elfrida," she said in her
girlish way, "but in private only."

"You are right.  Other people might suspect, and misconstrue what is a
platonic friendship," he said, and he took her hand in order to seal
their compact.

For a long time he held it, his gaze fixed upon her pale, agitated
countenance.  Why was she in peril?  Of what?

He asked her to tell him.  A slight shudder ran through her, and she
shook her head mournfully, no word escaping her lips.  She sighed, the
sigh of a young girl who had a burden of apprehension upon her sorely
troubled mind.  He could scarcely believe that this was the bright,
happy, laughing girl who, half an hour ago, had been putting her stones
along the ice, wielding her besom with all her might, and clapping her
dainty little hands with delight when any of her own side knocked an
opponent off "the pot lid."

At last, after long persuasion, during which time dusk had almost
deepened into darkness in that silent snow-covered wood, she, in a
faltering voice, and with many sentences broken by her emotion, which
she vainly strived to suppress, told him a most curious and startling
story to which he listened with breathless interest.

The first of the series of remarkable incidents had occurred about two
years ago, while she was at school in Versailles.  She, with a number of
other elder girls, had gone to spend the summer at a branch of the
college close to Fontainebleau, and they often succeeded, when cycling,
in getting away unobserved and enjoying long runs in the forest alone.
One summer's evening she was riding alone along a leafy by-way of the
great forest when, by some means, her skirt got entangled in the machine
and she was thrown and hurt her ankle.  A rather well-dressed Frenchman
who was coming along assisted her.  He appeared to be very kind, gave
her a card, with the name "Paul Berton" upon it, was told her name in
response, and very quickly a friendship sprang up between them.  He was
an engineer, and staying at the Lion d'Or, in Fontainebleau, he said,
and having wheeled her machine several miles to a spot quite near the
college, suggested another meeting.  She, with the school-girl's
adventurous spirit, consented, and that proved to be the first of many
clandestine rendezvous.  She was not quite seventeen while he was, she
thought, about twenty-six.

She kept her secret from all, even from her most intimate schoolmate,
fearing to be betrayed to the head governess, so all the summer these
secret meetings went on, she becoming more and more infatuated on every
occasion, while he, with apparent carelessness, learned from her the
history of her family, who they were, and where they resided.

"One thing about Paul puzzled me from the very first evening we met,"
she said reflectively as she was describing those halcyon days of
forbidden love.  "It was that I noticed, high upon his left wrist, about
four inches from the base of the hand, a scarlet mark, encircling the
whole arm.  It looked as though he had worn a bracelet that had chafed
him, or perhaps it had been tattooed there.  Several times I referred to
it, but he always evaded my question, and seemed to grow uneasy because
I noticed it.  Indeed, after a few meetings I noticed that he wore
shirts with the cuffs buttoned over with solitaires, instead of open
links.  Well--" she went on slowly with a strange, far-away look in her
face.  "I--I hardly like to tell you further."

"Go on, little friend," he urged, "your secret is in safe keeping with
me--whatever it may be.  You loved the man, eh?"

"Ah! yes!" she cried.  "You are right.  I--I loved him--and I did not
know.  We met again in Paris--many times.  All sorts of ruses I resorted
to, in order to get out, if only for half an hour.  He followed me to
London--when I left school--and he came up here."

"Up here!" he gasped.  "He loved you, then?"

"Yes.  And when I went to Dresden he went there also."

"Why?"

She held her breath.  Her eyes looked straight into his, and then were
downcast.

"Because--because," she faltered hoarsely, "because he is my husband!"

"Your husband.  Great heavens!"

"Yes.  I married him six months ago at the registry office in the
Blackfriars Road, in London," she said in a strangely blank voice.  "I
am Madame Berton."

He stood utterly dumbfounded.  The sweet, refined face of the child-wife
was ashen pale, her white lips were trembling, and tears were welling in
her eyes.  He could see she wished to confide further in him.

"Well?" he asked.  It was the only word he could utter.

"We parted half an hour after our marriage, and I have only seen him six
times since.  He comes here surreptitiously," she said in a low voice of
despair.

"Why?"

"Because evil fortune has pursued him.  He--he confessed to me a few
weeks ago that he was not so rich as he had been.  He will be rich some
day, but now he is horribly poor.  He being my husband, it is my duty to
help him--is it not?"

Garrett's heart rose against this cowardly foreigner, who had inveigled
her into a secret marriage, whoever he might be, for, according to
French law, he might at once repudiate her.  Poor child!  She was
evidently devoted to him.

"Well," he said, "that depends upon circumstances.  In what manner is he
seeking your assistance?"

She hesitated.  At last she said:

"Well--I give him a little money sometimes.  But I never have enough.
All the trinkets I dare spare are gone."

"You love him--eh?" asked the young man seriously.

"Yes," was her frank reply.  "I am looking forward to the day when he
can acknowledge me as his wife.  Being an engineer he has a brilliant
idea, namely, to perform a great service to my father in furthering his
business aims, so that it will be impossible for him to denounce our
marriage.  Towards this end I am helping him.  Ah!  Mr Hebberdine, you
don't know what a dear, good fellow Paul is."

The young man sniffed suspiciously.

"He has invented a new submarine boat which will revolutionise the naval
warfare of the future.  Father, in secret, builds submarine boats, you
know.  But Paul is anxious to ascertain what difference there is between
those now secretly building and his own invention, prior to placing it
before dear old dad."

"Well?"

She hesitated.

"I wanted to ask you, Mr Hebberdine, if you will do me a favour
to-night," she said presently.  "Paul is staying at the `Star,' down in
the village, in the name of Mr James.  I dare not go there, and he dare
not approach me.  There have been thieves about in this neighbourhood
lately, and dad is having the castle watched at night by detectives."

At this Garrett pricked up his ears.  Glenblair was, in those
circumstances, no place for his Highness and his clerical companion.

"I wonder," she suggested, "whether you would do me a great favour and
go down to the village to-night about ten and--and give him this."

From within her fur bolero she produced an envelope containing what
seemed to be a little jewellery box about two inches long by an inch and
a half broad.  This she handed to him saying, "Give it into the hand of
nobody except Paul personally.  Tell him that you are my friend--and
his."

So devoted was the girl-wife to her husband, and so unhappy did she seem
that Garrett, filled with the romance of the affair, at once agreed to
carry out his promise.  Her remarkable story had amazed him.  He alone
knew her secret.

As they sat at dinner that night, her eyes met his once or twice, and
the look they exchanged was full of meaning.  He was the bearer of some
secret message to her husband.

At half-past nine when the men had gone to the billiard-room, Garrett
slipped upstairs to his room to put on a pair of thick boots, for he had
a walk through the snow a good couple of miles to the village.

Scarcely had he closed the door when it opened again, and the Prince,
his finger raised in silence, entered, and in a low excited whisper
exclaimed:

"It's all up!  We must get away on the car as soon as possible.  Every
moment's delay means increased peril.  How have you got on with
Elfrida?"

The chauffeur stared at him without uttering a word.

"Elfrida!" he echoed at last.  "Well, she's told me a most remarkable
story, and made me her confidante."  Then, as briefly as possible, he
told him everything.  How her husband was staying in Glenblair village
as Mr James; and how he had promised to convey the little packet to
him.

When he had finished the Prince fell back in his chair utterly
dumbfounded.  Then, taking the little packet, he turned it over in his
hand.

"Great Heavens!" he cried.  "You don't know what you've done, Garrett.
There's something very funny about all this!" he added quickly.  "Wait
here, and I'll run along to Clayton," and he left the young man
instantly, carrying the packet in his hand.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour later Garrett was driving the Prince and the Rev Thomas
Clayton in the car due south, and they were travelling for all they were
worth over the hard frozen snow.  Of the reason of that sudden flight,
Garrett was in complete ignorance.  All he knew was that he had orders
to creep out to the garage, get the car, and await his companions who,
in a few moments, came up out of the shadows.  Their big overcoats were
in the car, therefore their evening clothes did not trouble them.  Then,
with as little noise as possible, they ran down a back drive which his
Highness, having reconnoitred, knew joined the main Perth road.  An
idling constable saw them, and wished them good evening.  They were
guests from the Castle, therefore he allowed them to pass unmolested.

The constable would scarcely have done this, however, had he known what
they were carrying away with them.

They took the road by Dunblane and Stirling, and then straight south
into Glasgow, where at two o'clock in the morning, Garrett's two
companions alighted in a deserted snow-covered street in the suburbs of
the city, and bidding him farewell, gave him orders to get back to
London with all haste.

The run was a most dismal one.  All through the snowstorm next day he
kept on, making but poor progress.

Next night, Garrett spent alone in Carlisle, and on the following
morning started direct for London, being compelled, owing to the
abominable state of the roads, to take two days over the run.

A week of suspense went by, when one evening he received a note from his
Highness, in consequence of which he went to Dover Street, where he
found him smoking one of his "Petroffs," as was his wont.

"Well, Garrett?" he laughed.  "Sit down, and have a drink.  I've got
eight hundred pounds for you here--your share of the boodle?"

"But I don't understand," he exclaimed.  "What boodle?"

"Of course you don't understand!" he laughed.  "Just carry your mind
back.  You told me the story of little Elfrida's unfortunate secret
marriage, and that her husband had a red ring tattooed around his left
wrist.  That conveyed nothing to you; but it told me much.  That
afternoon I was walking with the ladies up Glenblair village when, to my
surprise, I saw standing at a door no less a person than Jacques
Fourrier, or `Le Bravache,' as he's known in Paris, an `international,'
like ourselves."

"Le Bravache!" gasped Garrett, for his reputation was that of the most
daring and successful adventurer on the Continent, besides which he knew
him as his Highness's arch-enemy owing to a little love affair of a
couple of years before.

"Yes.  `Le Bravache'!" the Prince went on.  "He recognised me, and I saw
that our game was up.  Then you told me Elfrida's story, and from the
red circle on the man's arm I realised that Paul Berton, the engineer,
and `Le Bravache' were one and the same person!  Besides, she had
actually given you to take to her husband the very thing we had gone to
Glenblair to obtain!"

"What was it?" he asked excitedly.

"Well, the facts are these," answered the audacious, good-looking
Prince, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.  "Old Blair-Stewart has
taken, in secret, a contract from the German Government to build a
number of submarine boats for naval use.  The plans of these wonderful
vessels are kept in a strong safe in the old chap's private office in
Dumbarton, and both Fourrier and ourselves were after them--the French
Intelligence Department having, in confidence, offered a big sum to any
one bringing them to the Quay d'Orsay.  Now you see the drift of the
story of the exemplary Paul to his pretty little wife, and why he
induced her to take impressions in wax of her father's safe-key, she
believing that he merely wanted sight of the plans in order to ascertain
whether they were any better than his own alleged invention.
Fortunately for us, she induced you to be her messenger.  When we sent
you up there with orders to be nice to Elfrida we never anticipated such
a _contretemps_ as Fourrier's presence, or that the dainty little girl
would actually take the impressions for us to use."

"Then you have used it?"

"Of course.  On the night after leaving you, having made the false key
in Glasgow, we went over to Dumbarton and got the plans quite easily.
We crossed by Harwich and Antwerp to Brussels on to Paris, and here we
are again.  The Intelligence Department of the Admiralty are very
satisfied--and so are we.  The pretty Elfrida will no doubt remain in
ignorance, until her father discovers his loss, but I'm half inclined to
write anonymously to her and tell the poor girl the truth regarding her
mysterious husband.  I think I really shall, for my letter would cast a
good deal of suspicion upon the Man with the Red Circle."

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE WICKED MR WILKINSON.

How my cosmopolitan friend, the Prince, was tricked by a woman, and how
he was, entirely against his inclination, forced to run the gauntlet of
the police at Bow Street at imminent risk of identification as Tremlett,
form an interesting narrative which is perhaps best told in his own
words, as he recounted it to me the other day in the noisy Continental
city where he is at this moment in hiding.

An untoward incident, he said one afternoon as we sat together in the
"sixty" on our way out into the country for a run, occurred to me while
travelling from Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, to Bucharest, by way of
Rustchuk.  If you have ever been over that wonderfully-engineered line,
which runs up the Isker defile and over the high Balkans to the Danube,
you will recollect, Diprose, how grand is the scenery, and how full of
interest is the journey across the battlefields of Plevna and the
fertile, picturesque lands of Northern Bulgaria.

It is a corner of Europe practically unknown.

At Gornia, a small wayside station approaching the Danube, the train
halts to take up water, and it was there that the mishap occurred to me.
I had descended to stretch my legs, and had walked up and down the
platform for ten minutes or so.  Then, the signal being given to start
again, I entered my compartment, only to discover that my suit-case,
despatch-box, coat, and other impedimenta were missing!

The train was already moving out of the station, but, in an instant, my
mind was made up, and, opening the door, I dropped out.  My Bulgarian is
not very fluent, as may be supposed, but I managed to make the dull
station-master understand my loss.

He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and exhibited his palms in
perfect ignorance.  This rendered me furious.

Within my official-looking despatch-box were a number of valuable little
objects, which I wished to keep from prying eyes my passport and a
quantity of papers of highest importance.  No doubt some clever railway
thief had made off with the whole!

For a full ten minutes I was beside myself in frantic anger; but judge
my amazement when presently I found the whole of my things piled up
outside the station in the village street!  They had been placed there
by a half-drunken porter, who believed that I intended to descend.

Fortunately no one understood German or English, for the language I used
was rather hem-stitched.  My annoyance was increased on learning that
there was not another train to Rustchuk--where I had to cross the
Danube--for twenty-four hours, and, further, that the nearest hotel was
at Tirnovo, eighteen miles distant by a branch line.

I was therefore compelled to accept the inevitable, and in the dirty,
evil-smelling inn at Tirnovo--about on a par with a Russian post-house--
I met, on the following day, Madame Demidoff, the queer-looking old lady
with the yellow teeth, who, strangely enough, came from London.

She had with her a rather attractive young girl of about twenty,
Mademoiselle Elise, her niece, and she told me that they were travelling
in the Balkans for pleasure, in order to ascertain what that unbroken
ground was like.

The first hour I was in Tirnovo and its rat-eaten "hotel" I longed to be
away from the place; but next morning, when I explored its quaint
terrace-like streets, built high upon a sleep cliff where the river
below takes a sweep almost at right angles, and where dense woods rise
on the opposite bank, I found it to be a town full of interest, its old
white mosques and other traces of Turkish occupation still remaining.

To the stranger, Tirnovo is but a name on the map of the Balkans, but
for beauty of situation and quaint interest it is surely one of the
strangest towns in Europe.

The discomforts of our hotel caused me to first address the ugly old
lady in black, and after luncheon she and her niece Elise strolled out
upon the high bridge with me, and through the Turkish town, where the
little girls, in their baggy trousers, were playing in the streets, and
where grave-faced men in fezzes squatted and smoked.

Madame and her niece were a decidedly quaint pair.  The first-named knew
her London well, for when she spoke English it was with a distinctly
Cockney accent.  She said "Yers" for "Yes," and "'Emmersmith" for
"Hammersmith."  Mademoiselle was, however, of a type, purely
Parisienne--thin, dark-haired, narrow-featured, with bright, luminous,
brown eyes, a mouth slightly large, and a sense of humour that attracted
me.

Both of them had travelled very extensively, and their knowledge of the
Continent was practically as wide as my own.  Both were, of course, much
impressed by my princely position.  It is marvellous what a title does,
and how snobbish is the world in every quarter of the globe.

So interesting did I find the pair that I spent another day in Tirnovo,
where, in the summer sunset, we were idling after dinner on the balcony
overhanging the steep cliff above the river.  Our _salle-a-manger_ was
half filled by rough, chattering peasants in their white linen clothes
embroidered in red, and round pork-pie hats of fur, while our fare that
night had been of the very plainest--and not over fresh at that.

But it was a distinctly curious incident to find, in that remotest
corner of the Balkans, a lady whose residence was in the West End of
London, and who, though a foreigner by birth, had evidently been
educated "within the sound of Bow Bells."

"I love Bulgaria," the old lady had said to me as we had walked together
down by the river bank that afternoon.  "I bring Elise here every
summer.  Last June we were at Kazanlik, among the rose-fields, where
they make the otto of rose.  It was delightful."

I replied that I, also, knew Servia, Bulgaria, and Roumania fairly well.

"Then your Highness is travelling for pleasure?" she inquired.

I smiled vaguely, for I did not satisfy her.  She struck me as being a
particularly inquisitive old busybody.

When next morning Mademoiselle Elise informed me that her aunt was
suffering from a headache, I invited her to go for a stroll with me out
of the town, to which she at once acceded.

Her smart conversation and natural neat waisted _chic_ attracted me.
She used "Ideale," the very expensive Parisian perfume that to the
cosmopolitan is somehow the hall-mark of up-to-date smartness.  Her gown
was well-cut, her gloves fresh and clean, and her hat a small toque of
the very latest _mode_.

Idling beside her in the bright sunshine, with the broad river hundreds
of feet below, and the high blue Balkans on every side about us, I spent
a most delightful morning.

"We move down to Varna to-morrow, and then home by way of
Constantinople," she replied in French in answer to my question.  "Aunt
Melanie has invited your Highness to our house in Toddington Terrace,
she tells me.  I do hope you will come.  But send us a line first.  In a
month we shall be back again to the dreariness of the Terrace."

"Dreariness?  Then you are not fond of London?"

"No."  And her face fell, as though the metropolis contained for her
some sad memory she would fain forget.  Her life with that
yellow-toothed, wizen-faced old aunt could not be fraught with very much
pleasure, I reflected.  "I much prefer travelling.  Fortunately we are
often abroad, for on all my aunt's journeys I act as her companion."

"You are, however, French--eh?"

"Yes--from Paris.  But I know the Balkans well.  We lived in Belgrade
for a year--before the Servian _coup d'etat_.  I am very fond of the
Servians."

"And I also," I declared, for I had been many times in Servia, and had
many friends there.

They were a curious pair, and about them both was an indescribable air
of mystery which I could not determine, but which caused me to decide to
visit them at their London home, the address of which I had already
noted.

At five o'clock that evening I took farewell of both Madams and her
dainty little niece, and by midnight was in the Roumanian capital.  My
business--which by the way concerned the obtaining of a little matter of
20,000 francs from an unsuspecting French wine merchant--occupied me
about a week and afterwards I went north to Klausenburg, in Hungary, and
afterwards to Budapest, Graz, and other places.

Contrary to my expectations, my affairs occupied me much longer than I
expected, and four months later I found myself still abroad, at the fine
Hotel Stefanie, among the beautiful woods of evergreen laurel at
Abbazia, on the Gulf of Quarnero.  My friend, the Rev Thomas Clayton
from Bayswater, was staying there, and as, on the evening of my arrival,
we were seated together at dinner I saw, to my great surprise, Madame
Demidoff enter with the pretty Elise, accompanied by a tall, fair-haired
gentlemanly young man, rather foppishly dressed.

"Hulloa?"  I exclaimed to my friend, "there's somebody I know!  That old
woman is Madame Demidoff."

"No, my dear Prince," was my friend's reply.  "You are, I think,
mistaken.  That is the old Countess Gemsenberg, and the girl is her
daughter Elise.  She's engaged to that fellow--an awful ass--young
Hausner, the son of the big banker in Vienna, who died last year,
leaving him thirty million kroners."

"Do you really know this?"  I asked, looking the Parson straight in the
face.

"Know it?  Why, everybody in this Hotel knows of their engagement.  I've
been here five weeks, and they were here before I arrived.  They're
staying the season, and have the best suite of rooms in the place.  The
old Countess is, no doubt, very wealthy, and lives in Munich."

Neither of the women had noticed me, and I remained silent.

What my friend had told me was certainly extraordinary.  Why, I wondered
had Madame represented herself as a woman of the middle-class, resident
in a dull West End terrace?  Why had Elise not admitted to me the truth?
She had seemed so charmingly frank.

With an intention to remain unseen and observant I purposely avoided the
pair that evening.

Next morning I saw Elise and young Hausner strolling together on the
Strandweg, that broad path which forms the principal promenade, and runs
along the rocky coast from Volosca to Icici.  She was smartly dressed in
cream serge, girdled narrow but distinctive, and wore a large black hat
which suited her admirably, while he was in an easy suit of dark blue, a
panama, and white shoes.  They were talking very earnestly as they
walked slowly on in the bright autumn sunshine with the blue Adriatic
before them.  He seemed to be telling her something very seriously, and
she was listening without uttering a word--or, at least, she scarcely
spoke while they were within my sight.

On returning to the hotel I stumbled upon Madame Demidoff, who, seated
in the hall, was chatting with a tall, bald-headed, middle-aged man in
dark brown tweed, who had every appearance of an Englishman.  She had
just given him a letter to read, and he was laughing heartily over it.
Fortunately, however, she sat with her back to the door and, therefore,
did not observe me.  So I was enabled to make my exit without detection.

Half an hour later I pointed out the Englishman to the Parson, asking
who he was.

"I don't know," was his reply.  "I've never seen him before; a fresh
arrival, I suppose."

That day I lunched and dined in my private sitting-room, in order to
avoid the pair, and continue my observations.  That night I caught sight
of Elise, whose exquisite gown of pale pink chiffon was creating a
sensation among the well-dressed women, for the news of her engagement
to the young millionaire banker made her the most-talked-of and admired
girl in the great crowded hotel.

At eleven that night, when I believed that the ladies had gone to bed, I
ventured downstairs to the _fumoir_.  As I went along the corridor, I
noticed Madame's English friend, with his overcoat over his evening
clothes, leaving the hotel for a stroll, while almost at the same moment
Madame herself emerged from one of the rooms, and, without doubt,
recognised me, I saw her start quickly, hesitate for a second, and then
turn away in pretence that she had not noticed me.

Her attitude was distinctly curious, and therefore I made no attempt to
claim acquaintance.

The mystery of the situation was, however, considerably increased when,
next morning, I was surprised to learn that the Countess Gemsenberg had
received bad news from Munich, that her husband had been injured in a
lift accident, and that she and her daughter had left Mattuglie--the
station for Abbazia, three miles distant--by the 8:48 train, young
Hausner leaving by the same train.

From the servants I discovered that Madame and her daughter had spent
half the night packing, and had not announced their departure until six
that morning.  No telegram had been received by either of the trio,
which seemed to me a curiously interesting point.

Was it possible that Madame had fled upon recognising me?  If so, for
what reason?

The mystery surrounding the pair attracted me, and during the further
fortnight I remained at the Stefanie, I made inquiries concerning them.
It appeared that a few days after their arrival the Countess herself had
told two German ladies of her daughter's engagement to young Hausner,
and that the latter would arrive in a few days.  This news at once
spread over the big hotel, and when the young man arrived he at once
became the most popular person in Abbazia.

The Countess's enemies, however, declared that one night in the
hotel-garden she and Hausner had a violent quarrel, but its nature was
unknown, because they spoke in English.  Mademoiselle was also present,
and instead of supporting her lover, took her mother's side and openly
abused him.

And yet next morning the pair were walking arm-in-arm beside the sea, as
though no difference of opinion had occurred.

As for the Englishman in brown, I ascertained that he did not live
there, but at the Quarnero, down by the sea.  Those who heard him talk
declared that the Countess addressed him as Mr Wilkinson, and that he
was undoubtedly English.

Many facts I ascertained were distinctly strange.  The more so when, on
making inquiry through a man whom the Parson knew living at the
Quarnero, I found that this Mr Wilkinson had left Abbazia at the same
hour as his three friends.

I could see no reason why my presence at the Stefanie should create such
sudden terror within the mind of the old lady with the yellow teeth.
The more I reflected upon the whole affair, the more mysterious were the
phases it assumed.

I recollected that the old lady, whoever she might be, lived at Number
10 Toddington Terrace, Regent's Park, and I resolved to call and see her
in pretence that I had not recognised her in Abbazia, and was unaware of
her presence there.

Autumn gave place to winter, and I was still wandering about the
Continent on matters more or less lucrative.  To Venice Naples and down
to Constantinople I went, returning at last in the dark days of late
January to the rain and mud of London; different, indeed, to the
sunshine and brightness of the beautiful Bosphorus.

One afternoon, while seated here in Dover Street, lazily looking forth
upon the traffic, I suddenly made up my mind to call upon the old lady,
and with that purpose took a taxi-cab.

As we pulled up before Number 10, I at once recognised the truth, for
the green Venetian blinds were all down.

In answer to my ring, a narrow-faced, consumptive-looking woman,
evidently the caretaker, opened the door.

"No, sir.  Madame Demidoff and Elise left home again for the Continent a
fortnight ago, and they won't be back till the beginning of April."  She
spoke of Elise familiarly without the prefix "Miss."  That was curious.

"Do you know where they are?"

"I send their letters to the Excelsior Hotel, at Palermo."

"Thank you.  By the way," I added, "do you happen to know who is the
landlord of these houses?"

"Mr Epgrave, sir.  He lives just there--that new-painted house at the
corner;" and she pointed to the residence in question.

And with that information I re-entered the cab and drove back to the
club.

So Madame was enjoying the war in Sicilian sunshine!  Lucky old woman.
I had only been back in London a week, and was already longing for
warmth and brightness again.

That night, seated alone, trying to form some plan for the immediate
future, I found myself suggesting a flying visit to Palermo.  The Villa
Igiea was a favourite hotel of mine, and I could there enjoy the winter
warmth, and at the same time keep an eye upon the modest old lady of
Toddington Terrace, who appeared to blossom forth into a wealthy
countess whenever occasion required.

The idea grew upon me.  Indeed, a fortnight later, constant traveller
that I am, I ran from Paris to Naples in the "sixty," with Garrett, and
shipped the car over to Palermo, where I soon found myself idling in the
big white and pale green lounge of the Igiea, wondering how best to get
sight of Madame, who I had already ascertained, was at the Excelsior at
the other end of the town, still passing as Countess Gemsenberg.  The
pretty Elise was with her, and my informant--an Italian--told me in
confidence that the young Marquis Torquato Torrini, head of the
well-known firm of Genoese shipowners who was staying in the hotel, was
head over heels in love with her, and that engagement was imminent.

I heard this in silence.  What, I wondered had become of the young
Austrian millionaire, Hausner?

I, however, kept my own counsel, waited and watched.  The Parson also
turned up a couple of days later and started gossip and tea-drinking in
the hotel.  But, of course, we posed as strangers to each other.

The Igiea being the best hotel in Palermo and situated on the sea, the
blue Mediterranean lapping the grey rocks at the end of the beautiful
garden, it is the mode for people at other hotels to go there to tea,
just as they go to the "Reserve," at Beaulieu, or the Star and Garter at
Richmond.

I therefore waited from day to day, expecting her to come there.  Each
day I pottered about in the car, but in vain.

One morning, however, while passing in front of the cathedral, I saw her
walking alone, and quickly seized the opportunity and overtook her.

"Ah!  Mademoiselle!"  I exclaimed in French as I raised my cap in
feigned surprise and descended from the car.  "Fancy, you!  In Palermo!
And Madame, your aunt?"

"She is quite well, thank you, Prince," she replied; and then, at my
invitation, she got into the car and we ran round the town.  I saw that
she was very uneasy.  The meeting was not altogether a pleasant surprise
for her; that was very evident.

"This place is more civilised than Tirnovo," I laughed.  "Since then I
expect that you, like myself, have been travelling a good deal."

"Yes.  We've been about quite a lot--to Vienna, Abbazia, Rome, and now
to Palermo."

"And not yet to London?"

"Oh! yes.  We were at home exactly eleven days.  The weather was,
however, so atrocious that Madame--my aunt, I mean--decided to come
here.  We are at the Excelsior.  You are, of course, at the Igiea?"

And so we ran along through the big, rather ugly, town, laughing and
chatting affably.  Dressed in a neat gown of dove-grey cloth, with hat
to match and long white gloves, she looked extremely _chic_, full of
that daintiness which was so essentially that of the true Parisienne.

I told her nothing of my visit to Toddington Terrace, but presently I
said:

"I'll come to the Excelsior, and call on your aunt--if I may?"

I noticed that she hesitated.  She did not seem at all desirous to see
me at their hotel.  I, of course, knew the reason.  The old lady was not
Madame Demidoff in Palermo.

"We will call and see you at the Igiea," she said.  "We have never been
there yet."

"I shall be delighted," I answered her.  "Only send me a note, in order
that I may be in."

Beyond the town we ran along beside the calm blue sea, with the high
purple hills rising from across the bay.

Bright and merry, she seemed quite her old self again--that sweet and
charming self that I had first met in that rough, uncouth Bulgarian
town.  After an hour, we got out and seated ourselves on the rocks to
rest.

She was certainly not averse to a mild flirtation.  Indeed--had she not
already been engaged to Hausner, broken it off, and was now half engaged
to the Marquis Torrini?  She was nothing if not fickle.

"Yes," she sighed at last, "I suppose we shall have to go back to
humdrum London, before long.  It is so much more pleasant here than in
Toddington Terrace," she added in her pretty broken English.

"Ah!  Mademoiselle," I laughed.  "One day you will marry and live in
Paris, or Vienna, or Budapest."

"Marry!" she echoed.  "Ugh!  No!" and she gave her little shoulders a
shrug.  "I much prefer, Prince, to remain my own mistress.  I have been
too much indulged--what you in English call spoil-et."

"All girls say that!"  I laughed.  "Just as the very man who unceasingly
declares his intention to remain a bachelor is the first to become
enmeshed in the feminine web."

"Ah! you are a pessimist, I see," she remarked, looking straight into my
eyes.

"No, not exactly.  I suppose I shall marry some day."

"And you are engaged--eh?"

"No," I laughed, "it hasn't got so far as that yet.  A single kiss and a
few letters--that's the present stage."

"And the lady is Engleesh?"

"Ah!  The rest must, for the present, remain a mystery, mademoiselle," I
laughed, wondering what the Marquis would say if he discovered us idling
away the morning like that.

And so we chatted and laughed on, the best of friends.  I tried to
obtain some facts regarding her visit to Abbazia, but she was not
communicative.  Knowing that she was well aware of my visit to the
Stefanie, I mentioned it casually, adding:

"You must have already left before my arrival."

For an instant she raised her eyes to mine with a keen look of inquiry,
but, finding me in earnest, lowered her gaze again.

At length I saw from my watch that we must move again, if we intended to
be back to luncheon, therefore we rose and re-entering the car drove by
the sea-road, back to the town.  She seemed delighted with her ride.

"I'll bring my aunt to call on you very soon," she said, as we parted.
"I will send you a line to say the day."

"Yes, do, mademoiselle, I shall be greatly charmed.  _Au revoir_!" and I
lifted my hat as she gave me her tiny, white-gloved hand and then turned
away.

Next afternoon, while in the car near the theatre, I saw her driving
with a dark-bearded, well-dressed young man, whom I afterwards
discovered was the Marquis.

She saw me raise my hat, blushed in confusion, and gave me a slight bow
of acknowledgment.

That evening I made a discovery considerably increasing the puzzle.

I met the mysterious Mr Wilkinson face to face in the hall of the Hotel
de France, whither I had gone to pay a call upon some English friends
who had just arrived.

Wearing the same brown suit, he passed me by and left the hotel, for he
was unacquainted with me, and therefore unaware of my presence.  From
the hall-porter I learnt that "Mr James Wilkinson, of London"--as he
had registered in the hotel-book--had been there for the past three
days.

For four days I awaited Madame's visit, but no note came from Elise.
The latter was, no doubt, too occupied with her Italian lover.  I could
not write to her, as she had not given me the name by which she was
known at the Excelsior.

Compelled, therefore, to play a waiting game, I remained with my eyes
ever open to catch sight of one or other of the mysterious quartette.
But I was disappointed, for on this fifth day I made inquiry, and to my
utter dismay discovered that the same tactics had been adopted in
Palermo as in Abbazia.

The whole four had suddenly disappeared!

Greatly puzzled, the Parson returned to London.  I nevertheless remained
in Italy until May, when back again I found myself, one bright afternoon
about five o'clock, descending from the car outside the house in
Toddington Terrace, my intention being to pay a call upon Madame
Demidoff.

My ring was answered by a neat maidservant in smart cap and apron.

Next instant we stared at each other in speechless amazement.  It was
Elise!

Utterly confused, her face first flushed scarlet, and then blanched.

"You--you want to see Madame," she managed to stammer in her broken
English.  "She isn't at home!"

Beyond her, in the hall, stood the tall figure of a man, whom I at once
recognised as the mysterious Wilkinson.

"But, mademoiselle," I said, smiling, yet wondering, the motive of that
masquerade.  "I called also to see you."

She drew herself up in an instant, replying with some hauteur:

"I think, m'sieur, you have made some mistake.  We have never met
before--to my knowledge."

Her reply staggered me.

"When will Madame Demidoff return?"  I inquired, amazed at this
reception.

"To-morrow--at this hour," was her rather hesitating reply.

"Then I shall be glad if you will give her my card, and say I will
call," I said; "that is if you still deny having met me in Tirnovo and
in Palermo?"

"I really do not know what you are talking about, m'sieur," she
answered, and then, without further parley, closed the door in my face.
I stood still, staggered.

Surely my reception at Toddington Terrace was the reverse of cordial.

Next afternoon at the same hour I called at Number 10, but there was no
response to my ring, and the blinds were all down again.  The place was
deserted, for the tenants had evidently fled.

That same night as I sat in my rooms, a short, thick-set man, who gave
the name of Payne, was ushered in.

"I think," he said, "your Highness happens to know something of an old
lady named Demidoff and her friends who live in Toddington Terrace?"

"Yes," I replied, much surprised.

"Well," he explained, "I'm a police officer, and I watched you go twice
to the house, so I thought you knew something about them.  Are they your
friends?"

"Well, no; not exactly my friends," I replied, very suspicious of my
visitor.  "I had never been nearer a man from Scotland Yard in all my
life!  Imagine my position, my dear Diprose!"

"Ah! that's a good job.  They seem to have been playing a pretty smart
game on the Continent of late."

"How?  What was their game?"  I asked eagerly.

"One that brought them in thousands a year.  From the Italian and
Austrian police, who are both over here, it seems that they worked like
this: Old Madame Demidoff had a young and pretty French servant named
Elise.  On the Continent Madame took the title of countess, and Elise
posed as her daughter.  The latter flirted with wealthy young bachelors,
and so cleverly did she play her cards, that in several instances they
proposed marriage to her.  Then, after the old woman had secretly spread
the report of the engagement, there would suddenly appear on the scene
Elise's English husband--a well-known ex-convict named Wilkinson.  This
latter person would at once bluster, make charges against the
unsuspecting young lover, threaten exposure, and end by accepting a
thousand or two to preserve secrecy, none of the young elegants, of
course, caring that it should be known how completely they had been
`had.'  There are over a dozen different charges against them, the most
recent being a coup in Palermo a few months ago, by which they
blackmailed the young Marquis Torrini to the tune of nine thousand
pounds."

"I was in Palermo at the time, but I never knew that was their game."

"Were you?" he cried in triumph.  "Then you'll identify them, won't you?
I arrested Madame Demidoff and Wilkinson at Parkeston Quay last night,
as they were getting away to the Hook.  The girl tried to get to Paris,
but was followed and apprehended on landing at Calais early this
morning.  The Italian Government are asking for the extradition of the
interesting trio, and the papers are already on their way over."

I regretted having blurted forth the fact that I had known them in
Palermo, for in the interests of justice--though terribly afraid of
being recognised myself--I was compelled to identify Madame and
Wilkinson at Bow Street next day.

She swore a terrible vengeance upon me, but at present I have no fear of
her reprisals, for the Assize Court at Palermo a month ago condemned her
to ten years' imprisonment, while Wilkinson--whose past record was
brought up--has been sent to Gorgona for fifteen years, and the dainty
Elise, his wife, is serving seven years at Syracuse.

"But," the Prince added: "By Jove! it was a narrow squeak for me.  Old
Never-let-go Hartley, of Scotland Yard, was in the Extradition Court.
And I know he was racking his brains to remember where he had met me
before."

CHAPTER SIX.

THE VENGEANCE OF THE VIPERS.

Certain incidents in my friend's career are a closed book to all but
Clayton, the exemplary Bayswater parson, the devoted valet Charles, and
his smart chauffeur Garrett.

Gay, well-dressed, debonair as he always is, a veritable master of the
art of skilful deception and ingenious subterfuge, he has found it more
than once to his advantage to act as spy.  His knowledge of the east of
Europe is perhaps unique.  No man possessed a wider circle of friends
than Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, who to-day can pose perfectly as
the young German Highness, and to-morrow as the wandering Englishman,
and a bit of a fool to boot.

This wide acquaintance with men and matters in the Balkans first brought
him in touch with the Intelligence Department of the Foreign Office, and
his services as secret agent of the British Government were promptly
secured.  In this connection he was always known as Mr Reginald Martin.
Downing Street is rather near New Scotland Yard, where the names of
Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein and of Tremlett are a little too
well-known.  Therefore, to the chief of the Secret Service, and
afterwards to the British Ministers and consuls resident in the Balkan
countries, Servia, Bulgaria, Montenegro, and Roumania, he was for a time
known as Reggie Martin.

Only on rare occasions, however, were his services requisitioned.  The
game of spying did not pay him nearly so well as the game of
jewel-lifting.  Yet he had taken to it out of mere love of adventure,
and surely some of his experiences in the Orient were sufficiently
perilous and exciting.  More than once he had been in possession of
State secrets which, if divulged, would have set two or more of the
Powers flying at one another's throats, and more than once he had
carried his life in his hand.

One series of incidents through which he lived last year were, in
themselves, as romantic as anything seen written in fiction.  They were
hard solid facts--an exciting chapter from the life of a man who was a
perfect and polished adventurer, a little too impressionable perhaps,
where the fair sex were concerned, but keen-witted, audacious, and
utterly fearless.  He seldom, if ever, speaks of the affair himself, for
he is not anxious that people should know of his connection with the
Secret Service.

As an old college chum, and as one whom he knows is not likely to "give
him away" to the police, he one day, after great persuasion, related it
in confidence to me as together we spent a wearisome day in the _rapide_
between Paris and Marseilles.

"Well, my dear Diprose, it happened like this," he said, as he selected
one of his "Petroffs" and lit it with great care.  "I was sent to the
Balkans on a very difficult mission.  At Downing Street they did not
conceal that fact from me.  But I promised to do my best.  Garrett was
with the `sixty' in Vienna, so I wired sending it on to Sofia, in
Bulgaria, and then left Charing Cross for the Balkans myself.

"I first went _via_ Trieste down the Adriatic to Cattaro and up to
quaint little Cettinje, the town of one long street, where I had
audience of Prince Nicholas of Montenegro, whom I had met twice before--
in my character of Reggie Martin, of course--and thence I went north to
Servia, where I was received several times in private audience by King
Peter.  One day I arrived in Bulgaria to have confidential interviews
with the Prime Minister Dimitri Petkoff, and the newly appointed
Minister of Foreign Affairs.  My orders from Downing Street, I may as
well at once admit, were to ascertain whether Bulgaria intended to
declare war against Turkey over Macedonia.  The British Government was
extremely anxious to ascertain Bulgaria's intentions, as well as the
views of the other Balkan Powers, in order that the British policy
towards the Porte might combat that of the expansion intrigues of
Germany.

"Our public at home have a perfectly erroneous idea of Bulgaria,
believing it to be a semi-savage land.  If, however, they went to Sofia
they would find a fine modern city entirely up to date--a city that must
in a few years become the Paris of the Balkans.

"I had wandered along the wide tree-lined boulevards, idled outside the
big white mosque, and strolled through the market alive with peasants in
their sheepskins, and the girls with sequins and fresh flowers twined in
their plaited hair, until it was time for me to keep my appointment with
my friend the patriot Petkoff, Prime Minister.

"Half an hour later I was conducted through the long corridor of the
fine Government offices opposite the Sobranje, or Parliament House, and
ushered into the presence of the real ruler of Bulgaria.

"`Ah! _mon cher_ Martin,' he cried in French.  `Welcome back to Sofia!
They were talking of you in the Club last night.  De Corvin was saying
you were delayed in Belgrade.  He met you there--at our Legation, so he
told us.  And you have your motor-car here--eh?  Good.  I'll go for a
run with you,' and his Excellency put out his left hand in greeting.
His right sleeve hung limp and empty, for he lost his arm in the
Turco-Russian Campaign, at the historic battle of the Shipka.

"Dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a pleasant face and a small pointed
imperial on his chin, he was a wonderful orator and a magnificent
statesman who had the full confidence of his sovereign.  A dozen times
had political plots, inspired by Russia, been formed to assassinate him.
Indeed, he had actually been driving beside the great Stambouloff when
the latter had been killed in the street.  But he had always escaped.
Under his direction, Bulgaria had risen to be the strong power of the
Balkans, and as my personal friend I hoped that he would tell me, in
strictest confidence, what was his future policy towards the Turk.

"With that object I took the seat he offered me, and lighting
cigarettes, we began to chat.

"Through the open window came up the strains of martial music, as an
infantry regiment in their grey uniforms on the Russian model were
marching past, and as I glanced around the quiet, comfortable,
red-carpeted room, I saw that the only picture was a fine full-length
portrait of the Prince.

"For fully an hour we gossiped.  Perfectly frankly I at last told his
Excellency the object of my mission.

"He shrugged his shoulders somewhat dubiously, and smiled, declaring
that each of the Powers was endeavouring to ascertain the very same
thing.  I pressed my point, assuring him of Britain's good-will, and
explaining certain facts which, after a while, decided him.

"`But you see, _mon cher ami_,' he said, `supposing the truth got out to
Constantinople!  All my efforts of the past fifteen years would be
negatived.  And further--it would mean dire disaster for Bulgaria!'

"`I have been entrusted with many State secrets before, your
Excellency,' I replied.  `It would, for instance, not be the first time
you spoke with me in confidence.'

"He admitted it, and assuring me of his good-will towards England, he
declared that before he could speak, he must consult his royal master.

"Therefore, the French Minister awaiting an audience, I rose and left,
having arranged to dine with him at the Union Club that evening.

"For nearly a week I idled in Sofia visiting many diplomatists and their
wives, motoring about the neighbourhood, and driving out every night at
one Legation or the other, no one, of course, being aware of my secret
mission in the Bulgarian capital.  Garrett kept eyes and ears open, of
course.  Useful man Garrett--very useful indeed.

"One night with the Italian minister and his wife, I went to the
official ball given by the Minister-President, and among others I had as
partner a rather tall, fair-haired girl with clear blue eyes and a
pretty childlike face.  About twenty-two, she was dressed exquisitely in
white chiffon, the corsage of which was trimmed with tiny pink roses,
and on her white-gloved wrist gleamed a splendid diamond bracelet.  Olga
Steinkoff was her name, and as we waltzed together amid the smartly
dressed women and uniformed and decorated men I thought her one of the
most charming of cosmopolitan girls I had ever encountered south of the
Danube.

"Her chaperone was an old and rather ugly woman in dark purple silk, a
stiff and starchy person who talked nearly the whole evening to one of
the _attaches_ of the Turkish Legation, a sallow, middle-aged, bearded
man in black frock-coat and red fez.

"The girl in white chiffon was perfect in figure, in daintiness and
_chic_, and a splendid dancer.  We sat out two dances, and waltzed twice
together, I afterwards taking her down to supper.  She spoke French
excellently, a little English, and a little Bulgarian, while Russian was
her own language.  Her father lived in Moscow, she told me, and she had
spent four years in Constantinople with her aunt--the ugly old woman in
purple.

"The sallow-faced, beady-eyed Turk who did not dance, and who took no
champagne, was evidently her particular friend.  I inquired of the
Italian minister and found that the thin-faced bearded _attache_ was
named Mehmed Zekki, and that he had been in Sofia only a couple of
months.

"Towards me he was quite affable, even effusive.  He mentioned that he
had noticed me in the Club, dining with the Prime Minister, and he
referred to a number of people in Belgrade who were my friends.  He was
_attache_ there, he told me, for two years--after the _coup d'etat_.

"Twice during next day I encountered the charming Olga, driving with her
aunt, in a smart victoria, and during the next week met them at several
diplomatic functions.

"One afternoon, Olga and her chaperone accepted my invitation for a run
on the `sixty,' and I took them for a little tour of about thirty miles
around the foot of the high Balkans, returning along the winding banks
of the Isker.  They were delighted, for the afternoon was perfect.  I
drove, and she sat up beside me, her hand on the horn.

"One night, ten days later, we were sitting out together in the bright
moonlight in the garden of the Austrian Legation, and I found her not
averse to a mild flirtation.  I knew that the frock-coated Turk was
jealous, and had become amused by it.  On four or five occasions she had
been out for runs with me--twice quite alone.

"I mentioned the Turk, but she only laughed, and shrugging her
shoulders, answered:

"`All Turks are as ridiculous as they are bigoted.  Mehmed is no
exception.'

"I was leaving Bulgaria next morning, and told her so.

"`Perhaps, mademoiselle, we shall meet again some day, who knows?'  I
added, `You have many friends in the diplomatic circle, so have I.'

"`But you are not really going to-morrow!' she exclaimed with
undisguised dismay, opening her blue eyes widely, `surely you will stay
for the ball at the palace on Wednesday.'

"`I regret that is impossible,' I replied, laughing.  `I only wish I
could remain and ask you to be my partner, but I have urgent business in
Bucharest.'

"`Oh! you go to Roumania!' she cried in surprise.  `But,'--she added
wistfully, `I--I really wish you could remain longer.'

"During our brief friendship I had, I admit, grown to admire her
immensely, and were it not for the fact that a very urgent appointment
called me to Roumania, I would have gladly remained.  She had taken
possession of my senses.

"But I took her soft hand, and wished her adieu.  Then we returned into
the ballroom, where I found several of my friends, and wished them
farewell, for my train left at nine next morning.

"In a corner of the room stood the veteran Prime Minister, with a star
in brilliants upon his dress-coat, the empty sleeve of which hung limply
at his side.

"`_Au revoir, mon cher ami_,' he said grasping my hand warmly.
`Recollect what I told you this morning--and return soon to Bulgaria
again.  _Bon voyage_!'

"Then I passed the police-guard at the door, and drove back to the Hotel
de Bulgarie.

"That night I slept but little.  Before me constantly arose the
childlike beautiful face of Olga Steinkoff that had so strangely
bewitched me.

"I knew that I was a fool to allow myself to be attracted by a pair of
big eyes, confirmed bachelor and constant traveller that I am.  Yet the
whole night through I seemed to see before my vision the beautiful face,
pale and tearful with grief and sorry.  Was it at my departure?

"Next day I set out in the car across the Shipka, and three nights later
took up my quarters at that most expensive hotel, the `Boulevard,' at
Bucharest, the Paris of the Near East.  Next day I paid several visits
to diplomats I knew.  Bucharest is always full of life and movement--
smart uniforms and pretty women--perhaps the gayest city in all the
Continent of Europe.

"On the third evening of my arrival I returned to the hotel to dress for
dinner, when, on entering my sitting-room, a neat female figure in a
dark travelling-dress rose from an armchair, and stood before me gazing
at me in silence.

"It was Olga!

"`Why, mademoiselle!'  I cried, noticing that she was without her hat,
`fancy you--in Bucharest!  When did you arrive?'

"`An hour ago,' she answered, breathlessly.  `I--I want your assistance,
M'sieur Martin.  I am in danger--grave danger!'

"`Danger!  Of what?'

"`I hardly know--except that the police may follow me and demand my
arrest.  This place--like Sofia--swarms with spies.'

"`I know,' I said, much interested, but surprised that she should have
thus followed me.  `But why do you fear?'

"`I surely need not explain to you facts--facts that are painful!' she
said, looking straight at me half-reproachfully with those wonderful
blue eyes that held me so fascinated.  `I merely tell you that I am in
danger, and ask you to render me assistance.'

"`How?  In what manner can I assist you?'

"`In one way alone,' was her quick, breathless answer.  `Ah! if you
would only do it--if you would only save my life!'  And with her white
ungloved hands clenched in desperation, she stood motionless as a
statue.

"`Save your life!'  I echoed.  `I--I really don't understand you,
mademoiselle.'

"`Before they arrest me I will commit suicide.  I have the means here!'
and she touched the bodice of her dress.  `Ah, m'sieur, you do not know
in what a position I find myself.  I prefer death to save my honour, and
I appeal to you, an English gentleman to help me!'

"Tears were rolling down her pale cheeks as she snatched up my hand
convulsively, imploring me to assist her.  I looked into her countenance
and saw that it was the same that I had seen in those dark night hours
in Sofia.

"`But, mademoiselle, how can I help you?'  I inquired.  `What can I do?'

"`Ah!  I--I hardly like to ask you,' she said, her cheeks flushing
slightly.  `You know so very little of me.'

"`I know sufficient to be permitted to call myself your friend,' I said
earnestly, still holding her tiny hand.

"`Then I will be frank,' she exclaimed, raising her clear eyes again to
mine.  `The only way in which you can save me is to take me at once to
England--to--to let me pass as your wife!'

"`As my _wife_!'  I gasped, staring at her.  `But--'

"`There are no buts!' she cried, clinging to me imploringly.  `To me it
is a matter of life--or death!  The Orient Express passes here at three
to-morrow morning for Constantza, whence we can get to Constantinople.
Thence we can go by steamer on to Naples, and across to Calais by rail.
For me it is unsafe to go direct by Budapest and Vienna.  Already the
police are watching at the frontier.'

"For a moment I was silent.  In the course of years of travel I had met
with many adventures, but none anything like this!  Here was a charming
girl in dire distress--a girl who had already enchanted me by her beauty
and grace--appealing to my honour to help her out of a difficulty.  Nay
to save her life!

"She was Russian--no doubt a political suspect.

"`Where is Madame?'  I inquired.

"`Gone to Belgrade.  We parted this morning, and I came here to you.'

"`And your friend, Mehmed?'

"`Bah! the yellow-faced fool!' she cried impatiently with a quick snap
of her white fingers.  `He expects to meet me at the Court ball
to-night!'

"`And he will be disappointed!'  I added with a smile, at the same time
reflecting that upon my passport already _vised_ for Constantinople--
covered as it was, indeed, with _vises_ for all the East--I could easily
insert after my own name the words, `accompanied by his wife Louisa.'

"Besides, though I had several times been in the Sultan's capital, I
knew very few people there.  So detection would not be probable.

"Olga saw my hesitation, and repeated her entreaty.  She was, I saw,
desperate.  Yet though I pressed her to tell me the truth, she only
answered:

"`The police of Warsaw are in search of me because of the events of May
last.  Some day, when we know each other better, I will tell you my
strange story.  I escaped from the "Museum of Riga"'!"

"Pale to the lips, her chest rising and falling quickly, her blue eyes
full of the terror of arrest and deportment to Poland she stood before
me, placing her life in my hands.

"She had escaped from the `Museum of Riga,' that prison the awful
tortures of which had only recently been exposed in the Duma itself.
She, frail looking, and beautiful had been a prisoner there.

"It wanted, I reflected, still eight days to the opening of the shooting
which I was due to spend with friends in Scotland.  Even if I returned
by the roundabout route she suggested I should be able to get up north
in time.

"And yet my duty was to remain there, for at noon on the morrow, by the
Orient Express from Constantza to Ostend, a friend would pass whom I
particularly wanted to meet on business for a single moment at the
station.  If I left with my pretty companion I should pass my friend on
the Black Sea a few hours out of port.  It meant either keeping the
appointment I had made with my friend, or securing the girl's safety.
To perform my duty meant to consign her into the hands of the police.

"Acquaintance with political refugees of any sort in the Balkan
countries is always extremely risky, for spies abound everywhere, and
everybody is a suspect.

"I fear I am not very impressionable where the fair sex are concerned,
but the romance and mystery of the situation whetted my appetite for the
truth.  Her sweet tragic face appealed to me.  I had fallen in love with
her.

"She interpreted my hesitation as an intention to refuse.

"`Ah!  M'sieur Martin.  Do, I beg, have pity upon me!  Once in your
England I shall no longer fear those tortures of Riga.  See!' and
drawing up her sleeve she showed me two great ugly red scars upon the
white flesh scarcely yet healed.  `Once in your England!' she cried
clasping her hands and falling at my feet, `I shall be free--_free_!'

"`But how do you know that the police have followed you?'

"`Mariniski, our military _attache_ in Sofia, is my cousin.  He warned
me that two agents of Secret Police arrived there yesterday morning.
When I got here I received a wire from him to say they are now on their
way here to Bucharest.  Therefore not a moment must be lost.  We can
leave at three, and at ten to-morrow morning will have sailed from
Constantza.  They are due here at eleven-thirty.'

"`To-night?'

"`No, to-morrow.'

"She held my hands in hers, still upon her knees, her gaze fixed
imploringly into mine.  What could I do, save to render her assistance?
Ah! yes, she was delightfully charming, her face perfect in its beauty,
her hands soft and caressing, her voice musical and silvery.

"I gave her my reply, and in an instant she sprang to her feet, kissing
my hands again and again.

"I sent the car back to Vienna, and early that morning we entered the
train of dusty _wagons-lits_ which had been three days on its journey
from Ostend to the Orient, and next morning in the bright sunshine,
found ourselves on the clean deck of the mail steamer for
Constantinople.

"There were not more than twenty passengers, and together with my dainty
little companion, I spent a happy day in the bright sunshine, as we
steamed down the Black Sea, a twelve-hour run.  Dinner was at half-past
five, and afterwards, in the evening twilight, as we passed the Turkish
forts at the beautiful entrance to the Bosphorus, we sat together in a
cosy corner on deck, and I held her small, soft hand.

"She had, I admit, completely enchanted me.

"She seemed to have suddenly become greatly interested in me, for she
inquired my profession, and the reason I visited the East, to which I
gave evasive, if not rather misleading replies, for I led her to believe
that I was the representative of a firm of London railway contractors,
and was in Sofia taking orders for steel rails.

"It is not always judicious to tell people one's real profession.

"When we reached the quay at Constantinople, and I had handed over my
baggage to the dragoman of the Pera Palace Hotel, my pretty companion
said in French:

"`I lived here for quite a long time, you know, so I shall go and stay
with friends out at Sarmaschik.  I will call at your hotel at, say,
eleven to-morrow morning.  By that time you will have ascertained what
is the next steamer to Naples.'

"And so, in the dirty ill-lit custom-house at Galata, with its mud, its
be-fezzed officials and slinking dogs, we parted, she entering a cab and
driving away.

"Next morning she kept her appointment and was, I saw, exceedingly
well-dressed.

"I told her when we met in the big vestibule of the hotel, that there
was a steamer leaving for Marseilles at four that afternoon, and
suggested that route as preferable to Naples.

"`I think we will delay our departure until to-morrow,' she said.  `My
friends have a little family gathering to-night, and ask me to say that
they would be delighted to meet you.  They are not at all bigoted, and
you will find them very hospitable.'

"I bowed and accepted the invitation.

"`You will not find the house alone, as Constantinople is so puzzling,'
she said.  `I will send their _kavass_ for you at eight o'clock.'

"And a few moments later she drove away in the smart carriage that had
brought her.

"That day I idled about the Sultan's capital, looked in at St Sophia,
paused and watched the phantasmagoria of life on the Galata Bridge, and
strolled in the Grand Rue at Pera, merely killing time.  Case-hardened
bachelor that I am, my mind was now filled with that sweet-faced,
beautiful woman of my dreams who had been so cruelly tortured in that
abominable prison at Riga, and whom I was aiding to the safe refuge of
England's shores.

"Once, while turning a corner at the end of the Grand Rue, the busy
shopping centre of the Turkish capital, a mysterious incident occurred.
Among the many figures in frock-coats and fezes my eye caught one which
caused me to start.  It struck me curiously as that of my sallow-faced
friend, Mehmed Zekki, of Sofia.  Yet in a crowd of Turks all dressed
alike, one is rather difficult to distinguish from another, so I quickly
dismissed the suspicion that we had been followed.

"I had already dined at the hotel and was sitting in the Turkish
smoking-room, when there arrived a big Montenegrin _kavass_, in gorgeous
scarlet and gold, and wearing an arsenal of weapons in his belt, as is
their mode.

"`Monsieur Martin?' he inquired.  `Mademoiselle Olga.  She send me for
you.  I take you to ze house.'

"So I rose, slipped on my overcoat, and followed him out to the
brougham, upon the box of which, beside the driver, sat a big black
eunuch.  The carriage had evidently been to fetch some ladies before
calling for me.

"The _kavass_ seated himself at my side, and we drove up and down many
dark, ill-lit streets, where the scavenger dogs were howling, until we
suddenly came out in view of the Bosphorus, that lay fairy-like beneath
the full Eastern moon.

"Nicholas, the _kavass_, was from Cettinje, he told me, and when we
began to talk, I discovered that his brother Mirko had been my servant
on a journey through Albania two years before.

"`What!  Gospodin!' cried the big mountaineer, grasping my hand and
wringing it warmly.  `Are you really the Gospodin Martin?  I was in
Cettinje last summer, and my dear old father spoke of you!  I have to
thank you.  It was you who brought the English doctor to him and saved
his life.  Fancy that we should meet here, and to-night!'

"`Why to-night?'

"The big fellow was silent.  His manner had entirely changed.

"Suddenly he said: `Gospodin, you are going to the house of Mehmed Zekki
and--'

"`Zekki!'  I gasped.  `Then I was not mistaken when I thought I saw him.
He had followed us.'

"`Ah!  Gospodin!  Have a care of yourself!  Take this, in case--in case
you may require it,' he said, and pulling from his sash one of his
loaded revolvers, he handed it to me.

"`But you said that mademoiselle had sent you for me?'  I remarked
surprised.

"`I was told to say that, Gospodin.  I know nothing of mademoiselle.'

"`Mademoiselle Olga Steinkoff.  Have you never heard of her?'  I
demanded.

"`Never.'

"`Then I will go back to the hotel.'

"`No, Gospodin.  Do not show fear.  It would be fatal.  Enter and defy
the man who is evidently your enemy.  Touch neither food nor
drink there.  Then, if you are threatened, utter the words,
_Shunam-al-zulah_--recollect them.  Show no fear, Gospodin--and you will
escape.'

"At that moment the carriage turned into a large garden, which
surrounded a fine house--almost a palace--the house wherein my enemy was
lying in wait.

"Entering a beautiful winter-garden full of flowers, a servant in long
blue coat and fez, conducted me through a large apartment, decorated in
white and gold, into a smaller room, Oriental in decoration and design,
an apartment hung with beautiful gold embroideries, and where the soft
cushions of the divans were of pale-blue silk and gold brocade.

"Two middle-aged Turks were squatting smoking, and as I was shown in,
scowled at me curiously, saluted, and in French asked me to be seated.

"`Mademoiselle will be here in a few moments,' added the elder of the
pair.

"A few seconds later the servant entered with a tiny cup of coffee, the
Turkish welcome, but I left it untouched.  Then the door again opened
and I was confronted by the sallow-faced, black-bearded man against whom
the _kavass_ had warned me.

"`Good evening, Monsieur Martin,' he exclaimed with a sinister grin upon
his thin face.  `You expected, I believe, to meet Mademoiselle Olga,
eh?'

"`Well--I expected to meet you,' I laughed, `for I saw you in Pera
to-day.'

"He looked at me quickly, as his servant at that moment handed him his
coffee on a tray.

"`I did not see you,' he said somewhat uneasily, raising his cup to his
lips.  Then, noticing that I had not touched mine, he asked, `Don't you
take coffee?  Will you have a glass of rahki?'

"`I desire nothing,' I said, looking him straight in the face.

"`But surely you will take something?  We often drank together in the
Club at Sofia, remember!'

"`I do not drink with my enemies.'

"The trio started, glaring at me.

"`You are distinctly insulting,' exclaimed Mehmed, his yellow face
growing flushed with anger.  `Recall those words, or by the Prophet, you
do not pass from this house alive!'

"I laughed aloud in their faces.

"`Ah!'  I cried, `this is amusing!  This is really a good joke!  And
pray what do you threaten?'

"`We do not threaten,' Zekki said.  `You are here to die.'  And he
laughed grimly, while the others grinned.

"`Why?'

"`That is our affair.'

"`And mine also,' I replied.  `And gentlemen, I would further advise you
in future to be quite certain of your victim, or it may go ill with you.
Let me pass!'  And I drew the revolver the _kavass_ had given me.

"`Put that thing away!' ordered the elder of the men, approaching me
with threatening gesture.

"`I shall not.  Let us end this confounded foolishness.
_Shunam-al-Zulah_!'

"The effect of these words upon the trio was electrical.

"The sallow-faced _attache_ stood staring at me open-mouthed, while his
companions fell back, as though I had dealt them both a blow.  They
seemed too dumbfounded to respond, as, revolver in hand, I next moment
passed out of the room and from that house to which I had been so
cleverly lured, and where my death had evidently been planned.

"At the hotel I spent a sleepless night, full of deep anxiety, wondering
for what reason the curious plot had been arranged, and whether my
dainty little companion had had any hand in it.

"My apprehensions were, however, entirely dispelled when early on the
following been morning, Olga called to ask why I had absent when the
_kavass_ had called for me.

"I took her into one of the smaller rooms, and told her the whole truth,
whereat she was much upset, and eager to leave the Turkish capital
immediately.

"At seven that same evening we sailed for Naples, and without further
incident duly arrived at the Italian port, took train for Rome, and
thence by express to Paris and Charing Cross.

"On the journey she refused to discuss the plot of the jealous,
evil-eyed Turk.  Her one idea was to get to London--and to freedom.

"At eleven o'clock at night we stepped out upon Charing Cross platform,
and I ordered the cabman to drive me to the Cecil, for when acting the
part of Reggie Martin, I always avoided Dover Street.  It was too late
to catch the Scotch mail, therefore I would be compelled to spend the
first day of the pheasants in London, and start north to my friends on
the following day.

"Suddenly as we entered the station she had decided also to spend the
night at the Cecil and leave next day for Ipswich, where a brother of
hers was a tutor.

"I wished her good-night in the big hall of the hotel, and went up in
the lift.

"Rising about half-past six next morning and entering my sitting-room, I
was amazed to encounter Olga, fully dressed in hat and caracul jacket,
standing in the grey dawn, reading a paper which she had taken from my
despatch-box!

"Instantly she dropped her hand, and stood staring at me without
uttering a word, knowing full well that I had discovered the astounding
truth.

"I recognised the document by the colour of the paper.

"`Well, mademoiselle?'  I demanded in a hard tone, `And for what reason,
pray, do you pry into my private papers like this?'

"`I--I was waiting to bid you adieu,' she answered tamely.

"`And you were at the same time making yourself acquainted with the
contents of that document which I have carried in my belt ever since I
left Sofia--that document of which you and your interesting friend,
Zekki, have ever since desired sight--eh?'  I exclaimed, bitterly.  `My
duty is to call in the police, and hand you over as a political Spy to
be expelled from the country.'

"`If m'sieur wishes to do that he is at perfect liberty to do so,' she
answered, in quick defiance.  `The result is the same.  I have read
Petkoff's declaration, so the paper is of no further use,' and she
handed it to me with a smile of triumph upon those childlike lips.
`Arrest or liberty--I am entirely in monsieur's hands,' she added,
shrugging her shoulders.

"I broke forth into a torrent of reproach for I saw that Bulgaria had
been betrayed to her arch-enemy, Turkey, by that sweet-faced woman who
had so completely deceived me, and who, after the first plot had failed,
had so cleverly carried the second to a successful issue.

"Defiant to the last, she stood smiling in triumph.  Even when I openly
accused her of being a spy she only laughed.

"Therefore I opened the door and sternly ordered her to leave, knowing,
alas! that, now she had ascertained the true facts, the Bulgarian secret
policy towards Turkey would be entirely negatived, that the terrible
atrocities in Macedonia must continue, and that the Russian influence in
Bulgaria would still remain paramount.

"I held my silence, and spent a dull and thoughtful Sunday in the great
London hotel.  Had I remained in Bucharest, as was my duty, and handed
the document in Petkoff's handwriting to the King's Messenger, who was
due to pass in the Orient express, the dainty Olga could never have
obtained sight of it.  This she knew, and for that reason had told me
the story of her torture in the prison at Riga and urged me to save her.
Zekki, knowing that I constantly carried the secret declaration of
Bulgaria in the belt beneath my clothes, saw that only by my
unconsciousness, or death, could they obtain sight of it.  Hence the
dastardly plot to kill me, frustrated by the utterance of the password
of the Turkish spies themselves.

"It is useless for a man to cross swords with a pretty woman where it is
a matter of ingenuity and double-dealing.  With the chiefs of the
Foreign Office absent, I could only exist in anxiety and dread, and when
I acted it was, alas! too late.

"Inquiries subsequently made in Constantinople showed that the house in
which Zekki had received me, situated near the konak of Ali Saib Pasha,
was the headquarters of the Turkish Secret Service, of which the
sallow-faced scoundrel was a well-known member, and that on the evening
of the day of my return to London the body of Nicholas, the Montenegrin
_kavass_ who saved my life, had been found floating in the Bosphorus.
Death had been his reward for warning me!

"Readers of the newspapers are well aware how, two months later, as a
result of Turkish intrigue in Sofia, my poor friend Dimitri Petkoff,
Prime Minister of Bulgaria, was shot through the heart while walking
with me in the Boris Garden.

"Both Bulgarian and Turkish Governments have, however, been very careful
to suppress intelligence of a dramatic incident which occurred in
Constantinople only a few weeks ago.  Olga Steinkoff, the secret agent
employed by the Sublime Porte, was, at her house in the Sarmaschik
quarter, handed by her maid a beautiful basket of fruit that had been
sent by an admirer.  The dainty woman with the childlike face cut the
string, when, lo! there darted forth four hissing, venomous vipers.  Two
of the reptiles struck, biting her white wrist ere she could withdraw,
and an hour later, her face swollen out of all recognition, she died in
terrible agony.

"The betrayal of Bulgaria and the assassination of Petkoff, the patriot,
have, indeed, been swiftly avenged."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE SIGN OF THE CAT'S-PAW.

Another part which the Prince played in the present-day drama now being
enacted in Eastern Europe brought him in touch with "The Sign of the
Cat's-Paw," a sign hitherto unknown to our Foreign Office, or to readers
of the daily newspapers.

At the same time, however, it very nearly cost him his own life.

The affair occurred about a couple of months after the death of the
fascinating Olga Steinkoff.  He had been sent back to the Balkans upon
another mission.  Cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, he had been moving
rapidly up and down Europe gathering information for Downing Street, but
ever on the look-out for an opening for the Parson and himself to
operate in a very different sphere.

Garrett, blindly obedient to the telegrams he received, had taken the
car on some long flying journeys, Vienna, Berlin and back to Belgrade,
in Servia.  For two months or so I had lost sight of both the
mild-mannered, spectacled Clayton and the Prince, when one morning,
while walking down St James's Street, I saw Garrett in his grey and
scarlet livery driving the car from Piccadilly down to Pall Mall.

By this I guessed that his Highness had returned to London, so I called
at Dover Street, and twenty minutes later found myself seated in the big
saddle-bag chair with a "Petroff" between my lips.

He was in his old brown velvet lounge coat and slippers, and had been at
his writing-table when I entered.  But on my appearance he threw down
his pen, stretched himself, and sat round for a gossip.

Suddenly, while speaking, he made a quick, half-foreign gesture of
ignorance in response to a question of mine, and in that brief instant I
saw upon his right palm a curious red mark.

"Hullo!"  I asked.  "What's that?"

"Oh--nothing," he replied, rather confused I thought, and shut his hand
so that I could not see it.

"But it is!"  I declared.  "Let me see."

"How inquisitive you are, Diprose, old chap," he protested.

So persistent was I, and so aroused my curiosity by finding a mark
exactly like the imprint of a cat's-paw, that, not without considerable
reluctance, he explained its meaning.  The story he narrated was,
indeed, a most remarkable and dramatic one.  And yet he related it as
though it were nothing.  Perhaps, indeed, the puzzling incidents were of
but little moment to one who led a life so chock-full of adventure as
he.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yes, it really was curious, he remarked at last.  It was in March.  I
had been in London's mud and rain for a fortnight, and grown tired of
it.  Suddenly a confidential mission had been placed in my hands--a
mission which had for its object British support to the Bulgarian
Government against the machinations of Austria to extend her sphere of
influence southward across the Danube and Servia.

My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and once more the
journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one.
I had wired to Garrett, who was awaiting me with the car at the
Hungaria, in Budapest, to bring it on to Sofia.

But I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had
undertaken to carry out.  My patriotism had led me to attempt a very
difficult task--one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of
courage and resource, but which would, if successful, mean that a loan
of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence
would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which, ere long, must
be the power of the Balkans.

I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as
myself, emissaries of other governments and other financial houses.
Therefore, in the three long never-ending days the journey occupied, my
mind was constantly filled with thoughts of the best and most judicious
course to pursue in order to attain my object.

The run was uneventful, save for one fact.  At the Staatsbahnhof, at
Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little
old man in brown entered, and was given the compartment next mine.

His nationality I could not determine.  He spoke deep guttural German
with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes--which
were rather dandified for so old a man--I did not believe him to be a
native of the Fatherland.

I heard him rumbling about with his bags next door, apparently settling
himself, when of a sudden my quick ear caught an imprecation which he
uttered to himself in English.

A few hours later, at dinner, I found him placed at the little table
opposite me, and naturally we began to chat.  He spoke in French--
perfect French it was--but refused to speak English, though, of course,
he could had he wished.

"Ah! non," he laughed, "I cannot.  Excuse me.  My pronunciation is so
faulty.  Your English is so ve-ry deefecult."

And so we chatted in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his
way to Sofia.  He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly
ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black piercing eyes that gave
him a most striking appearance.  His grey hair was long, his nose
aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow, and he was a grumbler of the
most pronounced type.  He growled at the food, at the service, at the
draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread
we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared
to be only Danish margarine.

His complaints were amusing.  He was possessed of much grim humour.  At
first the _maitre d'hotel_ bustled about to do the bidding of the
new-comer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly
when called to listen to his biting criticism of the Compagnie
Internationale des Wagons-lits and all its works.

Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the
passport-officer took off his hat to him, bowed low and _vised_ his
passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its
owner:

"_Bon voyage_, Altesse."

I stared at the pair.  My fussy friend with the big head must therefore
be either a prince or a grand duke!  Just then I was not a prince--only
plain M'sieur Martin.  In Roumania princes are as plentiful as
blackberries, so I put him down as a Roumanian.

As I sat opposite him at dinner that night he was discussing with me the
harmful writings of some newly discovered German who was posing as a
cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community.
He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven
chin upon his finger, displaying to me most, certainly by accident, the
palm of his thin right hand.

What I discovered there caused me a good deal of surprise.  In its
centre was a dark livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a
hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a cat's-paw!

It fascinated me.  There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt
convinced.  It was just as though a cat had stepped upon blood with one
of its fore-paws and trodden upon his hand.

Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he
moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed.

His name, he told me at last, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in
Athens.  But I took that information _cum grano_, for I knew him to be a
prince travelling _incognito_.  The passport-officer at Semlin makes no
mistakes.

But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?

There is, unfortunately, no good hotel at Sofia.  The best is the
Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady to whom I was well-known as
M'sieur Martin, and in this we found ourselves next night installed.  He
gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a
stranger in Prince Ferdinand's capital than I myself was, for I had been
there at least half a dozen times before.  Most of the Ministers knew
me, and I was always elected a member of the smart diplomats' club, the
Union, during my stay.

The days passed.  From the first morning of my arrival I found myself as
before in a vortex of gaiety; invitations to the Legations poured in
upon me, cards for dances here and there, receptions by members of the
Cabinet, and official dinners by the British and French Ministers, while
daily I spent each afternoon with my friend, Colonel Mayhew, the British
military _attache_, in his comfortable quarters not far from our Agency.

All the while, I must here confess, I was working my cards very
carefully.  I had sounded my friend, Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired
Prime Minister--the splendid Bulgarian patriot--and he was inclined to
admit the British proposals.  The Minister of War, too, was on my side.
German agents had approached him, but he would have none of them.  In
Bulgaria just then they had no love of Germany.  They were far too
Russophile.

Indeed, in this strenuous life of a fortnight or so I had practically
lost sight of the ugly old gentleman who had been addressed by the
passport-officer as his Highness.  Once or twice I had seen him
wandering alone and dejected along the streets, for he apparently knew
nobody, and was having a very quiet time, Greeks were disliked in Sofia
almost as much as Turks, on account of the Greek bands who massacre the
Bulgars in Macedonia.

One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club--a function at which
the smart set at Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of
State themselves put in an appearance--I had been waltzing with the
daughter of the Minister of the Interior, a pretty dark-haired girl in
blue, whom I had met during my last visit to Bulgaria, and the Spanish
_attache_, a pale-faced young man wearing a cross at his throat, had
introduced to me a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black
evening-gown trimmed with silver.

A thin wreath of the same roses was in her hair, and around her neck was
a fine gold chain from which was suspended a big and lustrous diamond.

Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly
charming.  She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well.  She had
been at school in England, she said--at Scarborough.  Her home was at
Galatz, in Roumania, where her father was Prefect.

We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper.  Then
we had a couple of waltzes, and I conducted her out to the carriage
awaiting her, and, bowing, watched her drive off alone.

But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow,
the short ugly figure of the old Greek Vassos, with his coat collar
turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.

A few days later, when in the evening I called on Mayhew at his rooms,
he said:

"What have you been up to, Martin?  Look here!  This letter was left
upon me, with a note asking me to give it to you in secret.  Looks like
a woman's hand!  Mind what you're about in this place, old chap!  There
are some nasty pitfalls, you know!"

I took the letter, opened it, read it through, and placed it in my
pocket without a word.

With a bachelor's curiosity, he was eager to know who was my fair
correspondent.  But I refused to satisfy him.

Suffice it to say that on that same night I went alone to a house on the
outskirts of Sofia, and there met at her urgent request the pretty girl
Marie Balesco, who had so enchanted me.  Ours seemed to be a case of
mutual attraction, for as we sat together, she seemed, after apologising
for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the winds,
to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning
the reasons which had brought me to Bulgaria.

Like most women of the Balkans, she smoked, and offered me her
cigarette-case.  I took one--a delicious one it was, but rather strong--
so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me.
Before I could fight against it the small, well-furnished room seemed to
whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious.  Indeed I knew no
more until on awakening I found myself back in my bed at the hotel.

I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect
what held occurred.

My hand seemed strangely painful.  Raising it from the sheets, I looked
at it.

Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the Sign of the
Cat's-paw!

Horrified I stared at it.  It was the same mark that I had seen upon the
hand of Vassos!  What could be its significance?

In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct
imprint of the feline foot.  From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions,
to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played
such a prank on me.  But he only knew her slightly.  She had been
staying with a certain Madame Sovoff, who was something of a mystery,
but had left Sofia.

A month passed.  Mademoiselle and Madame returned from Belgrade and were
both delighted when I suggested they should go for a run in the "sixty."
I took them over the same road as I had taken Olga Steinkoff.  In a
week Mademoiselle became an enthusiastic motorist, and was full of
inquiry into the various parts of the engine, the ignition, lubrication,
and other details.  One day I carefully approached the matter of this
remarkable mark upon my palm.  But she affected entire ignorance.  I
confess that I had grown rather fond of her, and I hesitated to
attribute to her, or to Madame, any sinister design; the strange mark on
my hand was both weird and puzzling.  We drove out in the car often, and
many a time I recollected pretty Olga, and her horrible fate.

Vassos, who was still at the hotel, annoyed me on account of his extreme
politeness, and the manner in which he appeared to spy upon all my
movements.  I came across him everywhere.  Inquiries concerning the
reason of the ugly Greek's presence in Bulgaria met with negative
result.  One thing seemed certain; he was not a prince _incognito_.

How I longed to go to him, show him the mark upon my hand, and demand an
explanation.  But my curiosity was aroused; therefore I patiently
awaited developments, my revolver always ready in my hip pocket, in case
of foul play.

The mysterious action of the pretty girl from Galatz also puzzled me.

At last the Cabinet of Prince Ferdinand were in complete accord with the
Prime Minister Petkoff, regarding the British proposals.  All had been
done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day I had lunched
with his Excellency the Prime Minister, at his house in the suburbs of
the city.

"You may send a cipher despatch to London, if you like, Mr Martin," he
said, as we sat over our cigars.  "The documents will all be signed at
the Cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow.  In exchange for this loan of
three millions raised in London, all the contracts for quick-firing guns
and ammunition go to your group of financiers."  Such was the welcome
news his Excellency imparted to me, and you may imagine that I lost no
time in writing out a cipher message, and sending it by the man-servant
to the nearest telegraph office.

For a long time I sat with him, and then he rose, inviting me to walk
with him in the Boris Gardens, as was his habit every afternoon, before
going down to the sitting of the Sobranje, or Parliament.

On our way we passed Vassos, who raised his hat politely to me.

"Who's that man?" inquired the Minister quickly, and I told him all I
knew concerning the ugly hunchback.

In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown,
chatting upon the situation in Macedonia and other matters, when of a
sudden, a black-moustached man in a dark grey overcoat and round
astrachan cap, sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and raising a
big service revolver, fired point-blank at his Excellency.

I felt for my own weapon.  Alas!  It was not there!  I had forgotten it!

The assassin, seeing the Minister reel and fall, turned his weapon upon
me.  Thereupon, in an instant I threw up my hands, crying that I was
unarmed, and was an Englishman.

As I did so, he started back as though terrified.  His weapon fell from
his grasp, and with a spring, he disappeared again into the bushes.

All had happened in a few brief instants; for ere I could realise that a
tragedy had actually occurred, I found the unfortunate Prime Minister
lying lifeless at my feet.  My friend had been shot through the heart!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragic affair, which is no
doubt still fresh in their minds.

I told the Chief of Police of Sofia of my strange experience, and showed
him the mark upon my palm.  Though detectives searched high and low for
the hunchback Greek, for Madame Sovoff, and for the fascinating
Mademoiselle, none of them were ever found.

The assassin was, nevertheless, arrested a week later, while trying to
cross the frontier into Servia.  I, of course, lost by an ace the great
financial coup, but before execution the prisoner made a confession
which revealed the existence of a terrible and widespread conspiracy,
fostered by Bulgaria's arch-enemy Turkey, to remove certain members of
the Cabinet who were in favour of British influence becoming paramount.

Yes.  It was a rather narrow squeak.

Quite unconsciously, I had, it seemed, become an especial favourite of
the silent, watchful old Konstantinos Vassos.  He had no idea that I was
a "crook" or that I was a secret agent.  Fearing lest I, in my
innocence, should fall a victim with his Excellency--being so often his
companion--he had, with the assistance of the pretty Marie Balesco,
contrived to impress upon my palm the secret sign of the conspirators.

To this fact I certainly owe my life, for the assassin--a stranger to
Sofia, who had been drawn by lot--would, no doubt, have shot me dead,
had he not seen upon my raised hand "The Sign of the Cat's-paw."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

CONCERNING A WOMAN'S HONOUR.

Few people are aware of the Prince's serious love affair.

Beyond his most intimate friend, the Parson, I believe nobody knows of
it except myself.

The truth I have managed to glean only bit by bit, for he has never told
me himself.  It is a matter which he does not care to mention, for
recollections of the woman are, no doubt, ever in his heart, and as with
many of us, ever painful.

No man or woman is thoroughly bad.  Adventurer that he is, the Prince
has ever been true and honourable, even generous, towards a good woman.
The best and staunchest of friends, yet the bitterest of enemies if
occasion required, he has never, to my knowledge, played an honest woman
a scurvy trick.

The little romance of real life occurred in Florence about three years
ago.  A good many people got hold of a garbled version of it, but none
know the actual truth.  He loved, and because he loved he dare not pose
in his usual character as a prince, for fear that she should discover
the fraud.  On the contrary, he was living at a small cheap hotel on the
Lung Arno as Jack Cross, and posing as a man who was very hard-up and,
besides, friendless.

He had entered upon the campaign with an entirely different object--an
object which had for its consummation the obtaining of some very fine
jewels belonging to the wife of an American who had made a corner in
cotton, and who was engaged in seeing Europe.  Max Mason and the Parson
were both living as strangers to each other at the Savoy, in the Piazza
Vittorio Emanuele, and idling daily in the Via Tornabuoni.  A big coup
had been planned, but instead of bringing it off, as luck would have it,
his Highness had fallen hopelessly in love, and with a real royal
princess, a woman whose beauty was universally proverbial.

Their love-story was full of pathos.

They were standing together in a garden one sunny afternoon, and were
alone, without eavesdroppers.  A moment before, he had been wondering
what she would do; what she would say if she knew the ghastly truth--
that he was a thief!

He had been born a gentleman--though he had no more right to the title
of "prince" than I had.  True, at college at Cheltenham he had been
nicknamed "the prince," because of his charming manner and elegant airs.
Few of us even imagined, however, that he would, in later years, pass
himself off as a German princeling and gull the public into providing
him with the wherewithal to live in ease and luxury.

As he stood at the handsome woman's side, thoughts of the past--bitter
and regretful--flashed upon him.  His conscience pricked him.

"Princess!--I--I--" he stammered.

"Well?" and her sweet red lips parted in a smile.

"I--ah! yes, it's madness.  I--I know I'm a fool!  I see danger in all
this.  I have jeopardised your good name sufficiently already.  People
are looking at us now--and they will surely misjudge us!"

"You are not a fool, my dear Jack," she answered in her charming broken
English.  "You are what you call a goose."  And she laughed outright.

"But think!  What will they say?"

"They may say just whatever pleases them," she answered airily, glancing
at the half a dozen or so smartly dressed people taking tea in the
beautiful Italian garden overlooking the red roofs and cupolas of the
Lily City, Florence.  "They--the world--have already said hard things
about me.  But what do I really care?"

"_You_ care for the Prince's honour, as well as your own," he ventured
in a low serious voice, looking straight into her blue eyes.

Her Imperial and Royal Highness Angelica Pia Marie Therese
Crown-Princess of Bosnia, and daughter of a reigning Emperor, was
acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful and accomplished women in
Europe.  Her photographs were everywhere, and a year before, at her
brilliant marriage in Vienna, all the States of Europe were represented,
and her photograph had appeared in every illustrated newspaper on the
two Continents.  The world, ignorant of the tragedy of life behind a
throne, believed the royal marriage to be a love-match, but the bitter
truth remained that it was merely the union of two imperial houses,
without the desire of either the man, or the woman.  Princess Angelica
had, at the bidding of the Emperor, sacrificed her love and her young
life to a man for whom she had only contempt and loathing.

As she stood there, a tall, frail figure, in plain white embroidered
muslin, her fair hair soft beneath her big black hat, her sweet
delicately moulded face and her eyes of that deep childlike blue that
one so seldom sees in girls after fourteen, there was upon her
countenance an undisguised love-look.  She was indeed the perfect
incarnation of all that was graceful and feminine; little more indeed,
than a girl, and yet the wife of a prince that would ere long become a
king.

For a few moments the man and the woman regarded each other in silence.

He was spell-bound by her wondrous beauty like many another man had
been.  But she knew, within herself, that he was the only man she had
ever met that she could love.

And surely they were a curiously ill-assorted pair, as far as social
equality went, she the daughter of an Emperor, while he a hard-up young
Englishman, tall, dark-haired, with a handsome, serious face, lived, he
had explained to her, in Florence, first, because it was cheap, and
secondly, because his old aunt, who had a small house out on the Fiesole
Road, practically kept him.  His story to her was that he had once been
on the Stock Exchange, but a run of ill-luck had broken him, so he had
left England, and now managed to scrape along upon a couple of hundred
or so a year paid him by a firm of Italian shipping and forwarding
agents, for whom he now acted as English manager.  The position was an
excellent "blind."  Nobody recognised him as Tremlett, alias "his
Highness."

Half aristocratic Florence--those stiff-backed Italian duchesses and
countesses with their popinjay, over-dressed male appendages--envied
Jack Cross his intimate acquaintance with the Crown-Princess of Bosnia,
who, in winter, lived at the magnificent villa on the Viale dei Colli,
overlooking the town.  Towards Italian society her royal Highness turned
the cold shoulder.  The Emperor had no love for Italy, or the Italians,
and it was at his orders that she kept herself absolutely to herself.

On rare occasions, she would give a small garden-party or dinner to a
dozen or so of the most prominent men and women in the city.  But it was
not often that they were asked, and beyond three or four people in
Florence her Highness had no friends there.  But part of her school-days
had been spent in the big convent up at Fiesole, therefore it had been
her whim after her marriage, to purchase that beautiful villa with its
gorgeous rooms, marble terraces, and lovely gardens as a winter home.

And to that splendid house the Prince, alias Jack Cross, was always a
welcome guest.  He went there daily, and when not there, her Highness
would amuse herself by chattering to him over the telephone to his
office.

Envied by the society who would not know him because he was not an
aristocrat, and with the sharp eye of the Florentine middle-classes upon
him, little wonder was it that whispers were soon going about regarding
the Princess's too frequent confidences with the unknown Englishman.

He was watched whenever he rang at the great iron gate before which
stood an Italian sentry day and night, and he was watched when he
emerged.  In the clubs, in the salons, in the shops, in the _cafes_, the
gossip soon became common, and often with a good deal of imaginary
embroidery.

It was true that he often dined at the Villa Renata with her Highness,
the young Countess von Wilberg, the lady-in-waiting, and the old
Countess Lahovary, a Roumanian, who had been lady-in-waiting to her
mother the Empress, and in whose charge she always was when outside
Bosnia.  The evenings they often spent in the drawing-room, Her Highness
being a good pianist.  And on many a night she would rise, take her
shawl, and pass out into the bright Italian moonlight with the young
Englishman as her escort.

It was the way they passed nearly every evening--in each other's
company.  Yet neither of her companions dare suggest a cessation of the
young man's visits, fearing to arouse the Princess's anger, and receive
their dismissal.

At risk of gossip her Imperial Highness often invited him to go for runs
with her in her fine forty "Fiat" to Siena, to Bologna, or to Pisa,
accompanied always, of course, by the Countess Lahovary.  In those days
he pretended not to possess a car, though he could drive one, and on
many occasions he drove the Princess along those white dusty Italian
highways.  She loved motoring, and so did he.  Indeed, he knew quite as
much regarding the engine as any mechanic.

The Crown Prince hardly, if ever, came to Florence.  His father, the
King, was not on the best of terms with the Italian Court, therefore he
made that an excuse for his absence in Paris, where, according to report
his life was not nearly as creditable as it might have been.

Such were the circumstances in which, by slow degrees, her Highness
found herself admiring and loving the quiet unassuming but good-looking
young Englishman at whom everybody sneered because, to save himself from
penury, he had accepted the managership of a trading concern.

Prince Albert himself saw it all, and recognised the extreme peril of
the situation.

Born in the purple as the woman who had entranced him had been, she held
public opinion in supreme contempt, and time after time had assured Jack
that even if people talked and misconstrued their platonic friendship
she was entirely heedless of their wicked untruths and exaggerations.

That afternoon was another example of her recklessness in face of her
enemies.

She had invited up a few people to take tea and eat strawberries in the
grounds, while a military band performed under the trees near by.  But
quickly tiring of the obsequiousness of her guests, she had motioned
Cross aside, and in a low voice said in English: "For heaven's sake,
Jack, take me away from these awful people.  The women are hags, and the
men tailors' dummies.  Let us walk down to the rosary."

And he, bowing as she spoke, turned and walked at her side, well knowing
that by taking her from her guests he was increasing the hatred already
felt against him.

In her heart she loved this unknown hardworking young Englishman, while
he was held captive beneath her beauty, spell-bound by the music of her
voice, thrilled by the touch of the soft hand which he kissed each day
at greeting her, and each evening when they parted.

Yes, people talked.  Cross knew they did.  Men had told him so.  Max and
the Parson had heard all sorts of wild gossip, and had sent him a letter
telling him that he was an idiot.  They wanted to handle the American
woman's diamonds.  They were not in Florence for sentimental reasons.
The report had even reached his old aunt's ears, and she had
administered to him a very severe reprimand, to which he had listened
without a single word of protest, except that he denied, and denied most
emphatically, that he was the Princess's lover.  He was her friend, that
was all.

True, she was lonely and alone there in gay Florence, the City of
Flowers.  Sarajevo, her own capital she hated, she had often said.  "It
is pleasant, my dear Jack, to be in dear old Firenze," she had declared
only the previous evening as they had walked and talked together in the
white moonlight.  "But doubly pleasant to be near such a good, true
friend as you are to me."

"I do but what is my duty, Princess," he replied in a low voice.  "You
have few friends here.  But I am, I hope, one who is loyal and true."

Those words of his crossed her mind as they strolled away from the music
and the guests that warm May afternoon, strolled on beneath the
blossoms, and amid the great profusion of flowers.  She glanced again at
his serious thoughtful face, and sighed within herself.  What were
titles, imperial birth, power, and the servility of the people, to love?
Why was she not born a commoner, and allowed to taste the sweets of
life, that even the most obscure little waiting-maid or seamstress were
allowed.  Every woman of the people could seek Love and obtain it.  But
to her, she reflected bitterly, it was denied--because she was not of
common clay, but an Emperor's daughter, and destined to become a
reigning queen!

Together they walked along the cool cypress avenue; he tall,
clean-limbed in his suit of white linen and panama.  But they strolled
on in silence, beyond the gaze of their enemies.

"You seem to fear what these wretched gossips may say concerning us,
Jack," she said at last, raising her eyes to his.  "Why should you?"

"I fear for your sake, Princess," he answered.  "You have all to lose--
honour, name, husband--everything.  For me--what does it matter?  I have
no reputation.  I ceased to have that two years ago when I left
England--bankrupt."

"Poor Jack!" she sighed, in her quaint, childlike way.  "I do wish you
were wealthy, for you'd be so much happier, I suppose.  It must be hard
to be poor," she added--she who knew nothing of the value of money, and
scarcely ever spent any herself, her debts and alms being paid by palace
secretaries.

"Yes," he laughed.  "And has it never struck you as strange that you, an
Imperial Princess, should be a friend of a man who's a bankrupt--an
outsider like myself?" and an ugly thought flashed through his mind
causing him to wince.

"And have you not always shown yourself my friend, Jack?  Should I not
be ungrateful if I were not your friend in return?" she asked.

They halted almost unconsciously half way along the cypress avenue, and
stood facing each other.

Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was struggling within himself.  He loved
this beautiful woman with all his heart, and all his soul.  Yet he knew
himself to be treading dangerous ground.

Their first acquaintance had been a purely accidental one three years
ago.  Her Highness was driving in the Ringstrasse, in Vienna, when her
horses suddenly took fright at a passing motor-car and bolted.  Jack,
who was passing, managed to dash out and stop them, but in doing so was
thrown down and kicked on the head.  He was taken to the hospital, and
not until a fortnight afterwards was he aware of the identity of the
pretty woman in the carriage.  Then, on his recovery, he was commanded
to the palace and thanked personally by the Princess and by her father,
the grey-bearded Emperor.

From that day the Princess Angelica had never lost sight of him.  When
she had married he had endeavoured to end their acquaintance, but she
would not hear of it.  And so he had drifted along, held completely
beneath her spell.

He was her confidant, and on many occasions performed in secret little
services for her.  Their friendship, purely platonic, was firm and fast,
and surely no man was ever more loyal to a woman than was the young
Englishman, who was, after all, only an audacious adventurer.

In the glorious sunset of the brilliant Tuscan day they stood there in
silence.  At last he spoke.

"Princess," he exclaimed, looking straight into her eyes.  "Forgive me
for what I am about to say.  I have long wished to say it, but had not
the courage.  I--well, you cannot tell the bitterness it causes me to
speak, but I have decided to imperil you no longer.  I am leaving
Florence."

She looked at him in blank surprise.

"Leaving Florence!" she gasped.  "What do you mean, Jack?"

"I mean that I must do so--for your sake," was his answer.  "The world
does not believe that a woman can have a man friend.  I--I yesterday
heard something."

"What?"

"That the Prince has set close watch upon us."

"Well, and what of that?  Do we fear?"

"We do not fear the truth, Princess.  It is the untruth of which we are
in peril."

"Then Ferdinand is jealous!" she remarked as though speaking to herself.
"Ah! that is distinctly amusing!"

"My friendship with you has already caused a scandal in this
gossip-loving city," he pointed out.  "It is best for you that we should
part.  Remember the difference in our stations.  You are of
blood-royal--while I--" and he hesitated.  How could he tell her the
ghastly truth?

She was silent for a few moments, her beautiful face very grave and
thoughtful.  Well, alas! she knew that if this man left her side the sun
of her young life would have set for ever.

"But--but Jack--you are my friend, are you not?"

"How can you ask that?"

"Ah! yes.  Forgive me.  I--I know--you risked your life to save mine.
You--"

"No, no," he cried, impatiently.  "Don't let's talk of the past.  Let us
look at the future, and let us speak plainly.  We are old friends enough
for that, Princess."

"Angelica," she said, correcting him.

"Then--Angelica," he said, pronouncing her Christian name for the first
time.  Then he hesitated and their eyes met.  He saw in hers the light
of unshed tears, and bit his lip.  His own heart was too full for mere
words.

"Jack," she faltered, raising her hand and placing it upon his arm, "I
don't quite understand you.  You are not yourself this evening."  The
bar of golden sunlight caught her wrist and caused the diamonds in her
bracelet to flash with a thousand fires.

"No, Princess--I--I mean Angelica.  I am not.  I wish to speak quite
plainly.  It is this.  If I remain here, in Florence, I shall commit the
supreme folly of--of loving you."  She cast her eyes to the ground,
flushed slightly and held her breath.

"This," he went on, "must never happen for two reasons, first you are
already married, and secondly, you are of Imperial birth, while I am a
mere nobody, and a pauper at that."

"I am married, it is true!" she cried, bitterly.  "But God knows, what a
hollow mockery my marriage has been!  God knows how I have suffered,
compelled as I am to act a living lie!  You despise me for marrying
Ferdinand, a man I could never love.  Yes, you are right, you are
quite--"

"I do not despise, you, Angelica.  I have always pitied you," he
interrupted.  "I knew well that you did not love the Prince, but were
compelled to sacrifice yourself."

"You knew!" she cried, clutching his arm wildly, and looking into his
face.  "Ah! yes, Jack.  You--you knew the truth.  You must have known.
I could not conceal it from you."

"What?" he asked, his hand upon her slim shoulder.

"That--that I loved you," she burst forth.  But next second, as if
ashamed of her confession, she covered her face with her hands and
sobbed bitterly.

Tenderly he placed his strong arm about her neck as her head fell upon
her shoulder.  For a moment he held her closely to him.  Then, in a
faltering voice, he said:

"Angelica, I know that our love is mutual, that is why we must part."

"No! no!" she cried through her tears.  "No.  Do not leave me here
alone, Jack!  If you go from Florence I must return to the hateful
semi-imprisonment of the Palace at Sarajevo among those dull boors with
whom I have not the least in common."

"But, Angelica, I am in honour bound not to compromise you further.
Your enemies are all talking, and inventing disgraceful scandals that
have already reached the Prince's ears.  Hence his spies are here,
watching all our movements."

"Spies!  Yes, Bosnia is full of them!" she cried angrily.  "And
Ferdinand sends them here to spy upon me!" and she clenched her tiny
white hands resentfully.

"They are here, hence we must part.  We must face our misfortune
bravely; but for your sake I must leave your side, though heaven knows
what this decision has cost me--my very life and soul."

She raised her head, and with her clear blue eyes looked into his face.

At that same instant they heard a footstep on the gravel, and sprang
quickly apart.  But just as they did so a tall, well-dressed,
brown-bearded man came into view.  Both held their breath, for no doubt
he had seen her in Jack's arms.

The man was the Marquis Giulio di San Rossore, a Roman nobleman, who was
a friend of her husband the Prince.  But that he was her secret enemy
she well knew.  Only a month ago he had fallen upon his knees before
her, and declared his love to her.  But she had spurned and scorned him
in indignation.  He heard her biting words in silence, and had turned
away with an expression upon his face which plainly told her of the
fierce Italian spirit of revenge within his heart.

But he came forward smiling and bowing with those airs and graces which
the cultured son of the south generally assumes.

"They have sent me to try and find you, your Highness," he said.  "The
Duchess of Spezia has suggested a ball in aid of the sufferers from the
earthquake down in Calabria, and we want to beg of you to give it your
patronage."

And he glanced at the Princess's companion with fierce jealousy.  He
had, as they feared, witnessed the beautiful woman standing with her
head upon his shoulder.

"Let us go back, Mr Cross," her Highness said, "I would like to hear
details of what is proposed."

And all three strolled along the fine old avenue, and skirted the marble
terrace to where the guests, having now finished their tea, were still
assembled gossiping with the Countess Von Wilberg and Countess Lahovary.

As they walked together, the Marquess Giulio chuckled to himself at the
discovery he had made, and what a fine tale he would be able to tell
that night at the Florence Club.

The truth was proved.  The penniless Englishman was the Princess's
lover!  Florence had suspected it, but now it should know it.

That same night, after dinner, Jack was standing alone with the Princess
in the gorgeous _salon_ with its gilt furniture and shaded electric
lights.  He looked smart and well-groomed, notwithstanding that his
evening clothes showed just a trifle the worse for wear, while she was
brilliant and beautiful in an evening-gown of palest eau-de-nil
embroidered chiffon, a creation of one of the great houses of the Rue de
la Paix.  Upon her white neck she wore her historic pearls, royal
heirlooms that were once the property of Catherine the Great, and in her
corsage a splendid true-lover's knot in diamonds, the ornament from
which there usually depended the black ribbon and diamond star-cross
decoration, which marked her as an Imperial Archduchess.  The cross was
absent that night, for her only visitor was the man at her side.

Her two female companions were in the adjoining room.  They knew well
their royal mistress's attraction towards the young Englishman, and
never sought to intrude upon them.  Both were well aware of the shameful
sham of the Princess's marriage and of his neglect and cruelty towards
her, and both women pitied her in her loveless loneliness.

"But, Jack!" her Highness was saying, her pale face raised to his.  "You
really don't mean to go?  You can't mean that!"

"Yes, Angelica," was his firm reply, as he held her waist tenderly,
drawing her towards him and looking deeply into her fine eyes.  "I must
go--to save your honour."

"No, no!" she cried, clinging to him convulsively.  "You must not--you
shall not!  Think, if you go I shall be friendless and alone!  I
couldn't bear it."

"I know.  It may seem cruel to you.  But in after years you will know
that I broke our bond of affection for your own dear sake," he said very
slowly, tears standing in his dark eyes as he uttered those words.  "You
know full well the bitter truth, Angelica--just as well as I do," he
went on in a low whisper.  "You know how deeply, how fervently I love
you, how I am entirely and devotedly yours."

"Yes, yes.  I know, Jack," she cried, clinging to him.  "And I love you.
You are the only man for whom I have ever entertained a single spark of
affection.  But love is forbidden to me.  Ah! yes I know!  Had I been a
commoner and not a princess, and we had met, I should have found
happiness, like other women.  But alas!  I am accursed by my noble
birth, and love and happiness can never be mine--never!"

"We love each other, Angelica," whispered the man who was a thief,
softly stroking her fair hair as her head pillowed itself upon his
shoulder.  "Let us part, and carry tender remembrances of each other
through our lives.  No man has ever loved a woman more devoutly than I
love you."

"And no woman has ever loved a man with more reverence and more passion
than I love you, Jack--my own dear Jack," she said.

Their lips slowly approached each other, until they met in a fierce long
passionate caress.  It was the first time he had kissed her upon the
lips--their kiss, alas! of long farewell.

"Good-bye, my love.  Farewell," he whispered hoarsely.  "Though parted
from you in the future I shall be yours always--always.  Remember me--
sometimes."

"Remember you!" she wailed.  "How can I ever forget?"

"No, dear heart," he whispered.  "Do not forget, remember--remember that
we love each other--that I shall love you always--always.  Farewell!"

Again he bent and kissed her lips.  They were cold.  She stood
immovable.  The blow of parting had entirely paralysed her senses.

Once more he pressed his hot lips to hers.

"May Providence protect and help us both, my beloved," he whispered, and
then with a last, long, yearning look upon the sad white countenance
that had held him in such fascination, he slowly released her.

He caught up her soft white hand, kissing it reverently, as had been his
habit ever since he had known her.

Then he turned, hard-faced and determined, struggling within himself,
and next second the door had closed upon him, and she was left alone.

"Jack!  My Jack!" she gasped.  "Gone!" and grasping the edge of the
table to steady herself, she stood staring straight before her.

Her future, she knew, was only a blank grey sea of despair.

Jack, the man whom she worshipped, the man whom she believed was honest,
and for whom her pure affection was boundless, had gone out of her young
life for ever.

Outside, a young Tuscan contadino, passing on to meet his love, was
singing in a fine clear voice one of the old Florentine _stornelli_--
those same love-songs sung in the streets of the Lily City ever since
the Middle Ages.  She listened:

  _Fiorin di mela!
  La mela e dolce e la sua buccia e amara,
  L'uomo gli e finto e la donna sincera_.

  _Fior di limone!
  Tre cose son difficili a lasciare:
  Il giuoco, l'amicizia, e il primo amore_!

  _Fior di licore!
  Licore e forte e non si puo incannare;
  Ma son piu forti le pene d'amore_.

She held her breath, then with sudden wild abandon, she flung herself
upon the silken couch, and burying her face in its cushions gave herself
up to a paroxysm of grief and despair.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Six weeks later.

Grey dawn was slowly spreading over the calm Mediterannean, the waters
of which lazily lapped the golden shingle.  Behind the distant blue the
yellow sun was just peeping forth.  At a spot upon the seashore about
four miles from Leghorn, in the direction of the Maremma, five men had
assembled, while at a little distance away, on the old sea-road to Rome,
stood the hired motor-car which had brought one of them there.

The motive for their presence there at that early hour was not far to
seek.

The men facing each other with their coats cast aside were the
brown-bearded Marquess Giulio di San Rossore, and Prince Albert.

The latter, having left Florence, had learnt in Bologna of a vile,
scandalous, and untrue story told of the Princess by the Marquess to the
aristocratic idlers of the Florence Club, a story that was a foul and
abominable lie, invented in order to besmirch the good name of a pure
and unhappy woman.

On hearing it he had returned at once to the Lily City, gone to the
Marquess's palazzo on the Lung' Arno, and struck him in the face before
his friends.  This was followed by a challenge, which Jack, although he
knew little of firearms, was forced to accept.

Was he not champion and defender of the helpless and lonely woman he
loved--the woman upon whom the Marquess had sworn within himself to be
avenged?

And so the pair, accompanied by their seconds and a doctor, now faced
each other, revolvers in their hands.

The Prince stood unflinching, his dark brow slightly contracted, his
teeth hard set, his handsome countenance pale and serious.

As he raised his weapon he murmured to himself some words.

"For your honour, my own Angelica--my dear lost love!"

The signal was given an instant later, and two shots sounded in rapid
succession.

Next moment it was seen that the Italian was hit, for he staggered,
clutched at air, and fell forward upon his face, shot through the
throat.

Quickly the doctor was kneeling at his side, but though medical aid was
rendered so quickly, he never spoke again, and five minutes afterwards
he was dead.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Half an hour later Prince Albert was driving the hired car for all he
was worth across the great plain towards the marble-built city of Pisa
to catch the express to Paris.  From that day Jack Cross has concealed
his identity, and has never been traced by the pretty Crown-Princess.

No doubt she often wonders what was the real status of the obscure
good-looking young Englishman who spoke German so perfectly, who loved
her devotedly, who fought bravely in vindication of her honour, and yet
who afterwards so mysteriously disappeared into space.

These lines will convey to her the truth.  What will she think?

CHAPTER NINE.

A DOUBLE GAME.

Lord Nassington drove his big red sixty horse-power six-cylinder
"Napier" slowly up the Corso in Rome.

By his side was his smart chauffeur, Garrett, in dark-green livery with
the hand holding a garland proper, the crest of the Nassingtons, upon
his bright buttons.

It was four o'clock, the hour of the _passeggiata_, the hour when those
wintering in the Eternal City go forth in carriages and cars to drive up
and down the long, narrow Corso in order to see, and be seen, to
exchange bows with each other, and to conclude the processional drive at
slow pace owing to the crowded state of the street by a tour of the
Pincian hill whence one obtains a magnificent view of Rome and the Tiber
in the sunset.

Roman society is the most exclusive in the world.  Your Roman princess
will usually take her airing in her brougham with the windows carefully
closed, even on a warm spring afternoon.  She holds herself aloof from
the crowd of wealthy foreigners, even though her great gaunt palazzo has
been denuded of every picture and work of art years ago, and she lives
with a _donna di casa_ in four or five meagre rooms on the first floor,
the remainder of the great place being unfurnished and untenanted.

There is more pitiful make-believe among the aristocracy of Rome than in
any other city in the world.  The old principessa, the marchesa, and the
contessa keep themselves within their own little circle, and sneer at
the wealthy foreigner and his blatant display of riches.  One hears
girls of the school-room discussing the social scale of passers-by, and
disregarding them as not being "of the aristocracy" like themselves.

Truly the Eternal City is a complex one in winter, and the Corso at four
o'clock, is the centre of it all.  You know that slowly-passing almost
funereal line of carriages, some of them very old and almost
hearse-like, moving up and down, half of them emblazoned with coronets
and shields--for the Italian is ever proud of his heraldry--while the
other half hired conveyances, many of them ordinary cabs in which sit
some of the wealthiest men and women in Europe who have come south to
see the antiquities and to enjoy the sunshine.

Behind the lumbering old-fashioned brougham of a weedy marchesa, Lord
Nassington drove his big powerful car at snail's pace, and almost
silently.  In such traffic the flexibility of the six-cylinder is at
once appreciated.

Both Garrett and his master had their eyes about them, as though in
search of some one.

A dozen times pretty women in furs bowed to Lord Nassington, who raised
his motor-cap in acknowledgment.  The smart, good-looking young peer had
spent a couple of months there during the previous winter and had become
immensely popular with the cosmopolitan world who gather annually in the
Italian capital.  Therefore, when he had arrived at the Excelsior, a
week before, word had quickly gone round the hotels, clubs, pastrycooks,
and _cafes_ that the young English motoring milord had returned.

Upon the table of his luxurious little sitting-room at the hotel were
lying a dozen or so invitations to dinners, receptions, the opera, and a
luncheon-party out at Tivoli, while Charles, his man, had been busy
spreading some picturesque gossip concerning his master.

For the nonce his Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was
_incognito_, and as was the case sometimes, he was passing as an English
peer, about whose whereabouts, position, and estates Debrett was
somewhat vague.  According to that volume of volumes, Lord Nassington
had let his ancestral seat in Northamptonshire, and lived in New
Orleans.  Therefore, his Highness had but little to fear from unwelcome
inquiry.  He spoke English as perfectly as he could speak German when
occasion required, for to his command of languages his success had been
in great measure due.

Such a fine car as his had seldom, if ever, been seen in Rome.  It was
part of his creed to make people gossip about him, for as soon as they
talked they began to tumble over each other in their endeavour to make
his acquaintance.  Both Garrett and Charles always had some interesting
fiction to impart to other servants, and so filter through to their
masters and mistresses.

The story running round Rome, and being passed from mouth to mouth along
the Corso, in Aregno's, in the Excelsior, and up among the idlers on the
Pincio, was that that reckless devil-may-care young fellow in motor-coat
and cap, smoking a cigar as he drove, had only a fortnight before played
with maximums at Monte Carlo, and in one day alone had won over forty
thousand pounds at roulette.

The rather foppishly dressed Italians idling along the Corso--every man
a born gambler--were all interested in him as he passed.  He was a
favourite of fortune, and they envied him his good luck.  And though
they wore yellow gloves and patent-leather boots they yearned for a
_terno_ on the Lotto--the aspiration of every man, be he _conte_ or
_contadino_.

As his lordship approached the end of the long, narrow street close to
the Porta del Popolo, Garrett gave him a nudge, and glancing at an
oncoming carriage he saw in it two pretty dark-haired girls.  One, the
better looking of the pair, was about twenty-two, and wore rich sables,
with a neat toque of the same fur.  The other about three years her
senior, wore a black hat, a velvet coat, and a boa of white Arctic fox.
Both were delicate, refined-looking girls, and evidently ladies.

Nassington raised his cap and laughed, receiving nods and merry laughs
of recognition in return.

"I wonder where they're going, Garrett?" he remarked after they had
passed.

"Better follow them, hadn't we?" remarked the man.

A moment later, however, a humble cab passed, one of those little open
victorias which the visitor to Rome knows so well, and in it was seated
alone a middle-aged, rather red-faced English clergyman.

His lordship and he exchanged glances, but neither recognised each
other.

"Good!" whispered the man at the wheel to his servant beside him.  "So
the Parson's arrived.  He hasn't been long on the way from Berlin.  I
suppose he's keeping his eye upon the girls."

"Trust him," laughed the chauffeur.  "You sent him the snap-shot, I
suppose?"

"Of course.  And it seems he's lost no time.  He couldn't have arrived
before five o'clock this morning."

"When Clayton's on a good thing he moves about as quickly as you do,"
the smart young English chauffeur remarked.

"Yes," his master admitted.  "He's the most resourceful man I've ever
known--and I've known a few.  We'll take a run up the Pincio and back,"
and, without changing speed, he began to ascend the winding road which
leads to the top of the hill.

Up there, they found quite a crowd of people whom Nassington had known
the previous season.

Rome was full of life, merriment and gaiety.  Carnival had passed, and
the Pasqua was fast approaching; the time when the Roman season is at
its gayest and when the hotels are full.  The court receptions and balls
at the Quirinale had brought the Italian aristocracy from the various
cities, and the ambassadors were mostly at their posts because of the
weekly diplomatic receptions.

Surely it is a strange world--that vain, silly, out-dressing world of
Rome, where religion is only the cant of the popular confessor and the
scandal of a promenade through St Peter's or San Giovanni.

At the summit of the Pincio Lord Nassington pulled up the car close to
the long stone balustrade, and as he did so a young Italian elegant, the
Marquis Carlo di Rimini, stepped up and seizing his hand, was profuse in
his welcome back to Rome.

The Englishman descended from the car, lit one of his eternal
"Petroffs," and leaned upon the balustrade to chat and learn the latest
scandal.  The Marquis Carlo and he were fellow members of the Circolo
Unione, one of the smartest clubs in Rome, and had played bridge
together through many a night.

A whisper had once gone forth that the source of the over-dressed young
noble's income was cards, but Nassington had always given him his due.
He had never caught him cheating, and surely if he had cheated the
Englishman would have known it.

As they stood there, gazing across the city below, the sky was aflame in
all the crimson glory of the Roman sunset, and even as they spoke the
Angelus had, of a sudden, clashed forth from every church tower, the
bells clanging discordantly far and near.

It was the hour of the _venti-tre_, but in the city nobody cared.  The
patient toilers in the Campagna, however, the _contadini_ in the fields
and in the vineyards who had been working on the brown earth since the
dawn, crossed themselves with a murmured prayer to the Madonna and
prodded their ox-teams onward.  In Rome itself nowadays, alas! the bells
of the _venti-tre_ of spring and winter only remind the gay, giddy
cosmopolitan crowd that it is the hour for tea in the halls of the
hotels, or the English tea-rooms in the Corso.

An hour later, when his lordship entered his room at the Excelsior, he
found the Reverend Thomas Clayton seated in his armchair patiently
smoking and awaiting him.

"By Jove! old chap.  You got through quick," cried his lordship throwing
off his coat and cap.  "Well?"

"It's a soft thing--that's my opinion, the girl Velia is devilish
pretty, and the cousin isn't half bad-looking.  I haven't been idle.
Got in at six--an hour late, of course, had a bath and breakfast and
out.  Saw a dozen people I know before noon, lunched at that little
_trattoria_ behind the post office where so many of the Deputies go, and
learnt a lot.  I'm no stranger here you know--lived here a year once--
did a splendid bit of business, but had to slip.  That was the year
before we joined our forces."

"Well, what do you know?"

"Boncini, her father is, of course, Minister of the Interior, and a
pretty slick customer.  Made pots of money, they say, and only keeps in
office by bribery.  Half the money subscribed by charitable people on
behalf of the sufferers from the recent earthquake down in Calabria went
into his pocket.  He bought a big villa, and fine estate, close to
Vallombrosa a month or so afterwards."

His lordship grunted.

"Picks up what he can?" he remarked.  "One of us--it seems!"

"Exactly.  And to do any business, we'll have to be pretty cute.  He's
already seen and heard a lot of you, and he knows that you've met his
pretty daughter.  Perhaps he fancies you'll marry her."

"The only use of marriage to a man, my dear Clayton," exclaimed the
devil-may-care adventurer blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from his
lips, "is to enable him to make a settlement upon his wife, and so
wriggle from the clutches of his creditors."  The Parson laughed.
Regarding the marriage tie his Highness, or "his lordship" rather as he
was at that moment called, was always sarcastic.

"Really, old chap, you spread your fame wherever you go.  Why, all Rome
is talking about this wonderful coup of yours at Monte."

"It was Garrett's idea.  He told them down in the garage, and Charles
told a lady's maid or two, I think.  Such things are quite easy when one
starts out upon a big bluff.  But if what you've discovered about his
Excellency the Minister Boncini is really true, then I shall alter my
tactics somewhat.  I mean that I must make the dark-haired daughter a
stepping-stone to her father."

"With care--my dear fellow," exclaimed the Parson in that calm, clerical
drawl habitual to him.  "The girl's cousin, Miss Ethel Thorold, is
English.  The sister of the Signora Boncini married a man on the London
Stock Exchange, named Thorold."

"That's awkward," exclaimed his lordship thoughtfully, "upsets my
plans."

"But he's dead," the Parson declared.  His companion nodded
satisfaction.

"Now Miss Ethel is, I've found, a rather religiously inclined young
person--all praise to her.  So I shall succeed very soon in getting to
know her.  Indeed, as you've already made her acquaintance you might
introduce me as the vicar of some living within your gift."

"Excellent--I will."

"And what's your plans?"

"They're my own secrets at present, Tommy," was the other's quick
answer.  "You're at the Grand, aren't you?  Well, for the present, we
must be strangers--till I approach you.  Understand?"

"Of course.  Give me five hundred francs will you.  I'm short?"

His lordship unlocked his heavy steel despatch-box and gave his friend
five one-hundred franc notes without a word.

Then they reseated themselves, and with Charles, the faithful valet,
leaning against the edge of the table smoking a cigarette with them,
their conversation was both interesting and confidential.

A fortnight went by, and Rome was in the middle of her Pasqua _fetes_.
The night was perfect, bright and star-lit.

The great gilded ballroom of the huge old Peruzzi Palace, in the Via
Nazionale, the residence of his Excellency the Minister Boncini, was
thronged by a brilliant crowd, among whom Lord Nassington made his way,
ever and anon bowing over some woman's hand.

The bright uniforms, the glittering stars and  ribbons worn by
the men, and the magnificent toilettes of the women combined to form a
perfect phantasmagoria of colour beneath the huge crystal electroliers.

The political and social world of Rome had gathered there at the monthly
reception of his Excellency, the rather stout grey-bearded man with the
broad cerise-and-white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy across
his shirt-front, and the diamond star upon his coat.  His Lordship
strode through the huge painted _salons_ with their heavy gilt mirrors
and giant palms, and approached the man of power in that complex nation,
modern Italy.

At that moment his Excellency was chatting with the French Ambassador,
but on the Englishman's approach he turned to him exclaiming in French:

"Ah!  Lord Nassington!  I am so pleased you could come.  Velia told me
of the slight accident to your car yesterday.  I hope you were not hurt
at all?"

"Oh! no," laughed the debonair young man.  "I had perhaps a close shave.
My car is a rather fast one, and I was driving recklessly on the
Maremma Road--a sharp turn--and I ran down a bank, that's all.  The car
will be all right by to-morrow."

"Ah, milord.  The automobile is an invention of the future, without a
doubt."

"Most certainly.  Indeed, as a matter of fact, I thought of making a
suggestion to your Excellency--one which I believe would be most
acceptable to the Italian nation.  But, of course, here it's quite
impossible to talk."

"Then come to-morrow morning to my private cabinet at the Ministry--or
better still, here to luncheon, and we can chat."

His Lordship expressed his thanks, and then moved off in search of the
pretty Velia.

For the greater part of the evening he dangled at the side of the
good-looking girl in turquoise chiffon, having several waltzes with her
and afterwards strolling out upon the balcony and sitting there beneath
the starlight.

"What a charming man your friend Mr Clayton is!" exclaimed the girl in
English, as they were sitting together apart from the others.  "Papa is
delighted with him."

"Oh, yes--a most excellent fellow for a parson," his Lordship laughed,
and then their conversation turned upon motors and motoring.

"How is your shoulder this evening?" she inquired.

"Not at all painful," he declared.  "It's nearly all right again.  The
car will be ready for the road to-morrow afternoon.  I'm lunching with
you here, and I wonder if you and your cousin will come with me for a
run out to Tivoli afterwards?"

"I should be delighted," she said.  "Our car is only a sixteen `Fiat'
you know, and we never travel faster than a cab.  It would be such fun
to have a run in your beautiful `sixty'!  I don't suppose papa would
object."

"I'll ask him to come, too," laughed the man by whom she had become so
attracted, and then they returned for another dance.  Her ears were
open, and so were those of the shrewd old man who controlled the
internal affairs of the kingdom.  There were whisperings everywhere,
regarding the young man's wealth, his good fortune, and his aristocratic
family.

His Excellency had not failed to notice the attraction which the young
English peer held for his daughter, and also that he paid her marked
attention.  Therefore the old man was extremely self-satisfied.

Next day after the little family luncheon at the Peruzzi Palace at which
only the Signora Boncini, Velia, and her cousin Ethel were present, his
Excellency took his guest aside in his small private room for their
coffee and cigarettes.

Nassington offered the Minister one of his "Petroffs" which was
pronounced excellent.

Then, after a brief chat, his Lordship came to the point.

"The fact is, your Excellency," he said, "a suggestion has occurred to
me by which the Italian Government could, while benefiting the country
to an enormous extent, at the same time secure a very handsome sum
annually towards the exchequer."

"How?" inquired the shrewd old statesman.

"By granting to a group of substantial English financiers a monopoly for
the whole of the motor-transport of Italy," his Lordship replied,
blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.  "You have, in every part of the
kingdom, great tracts of productive country without railways or
communications.  At the same time you have excellent roads everywhere.
The concession, if granted, would be taken up by a great firm who handle
motor-traction, and certain districts, approved by your government,
would be opened up as an experiment.  Would not that be of national
benefit?"

"I see," replied the statesman stroking his beard thoughtfully.  "And
you propose that the earnings of the syndicate should be taxed by our
Department of Finance?"

"Exactly."

A keen, eager look was in the old man's eyes, and did not pass
unrecognised by the man lounging in the armchair in picturesque
indolence.

"And suppose we were to go into the matter," the Minister said.  "What
attitude would your Lordship adopt?"

"Well--my attitude would be this," Nassington replied.  "You give me the
proper concession, signed by the Ministers, and I guarantee to find the
capital among my personal friends in financial circles in London.  But
on one condition," he added.  "That the whole matter is kept secret.
Afterwards, I venture to think the whole country, and especially the
rural population will be grateful to your Excellency."

Boncini instantly saw that such a move would increase his popularity
immensely in the country.  The idea appealed to him.  If Lord
Nassington's friends were ready with capital, they would also be ready,
he foresaw, with a very substantial sum for bribery.  Personally he
cared not a rap for the progress of Italy.  While in office, he intended
to amass as much as he could.  He was the all-powerful man in Italy at
the moment.  But next year he might be--well where more than one
Minister as powerful as he, had found himself--in prison!

"There are difficulties," his Excellency said with some hesitation.  "My
colleagues in the Cabinet may raise objections.  They may not see
matters in the light that I do.  And the Senate, too--they--"

"I know.  I quite understand your Excellency," exclaimed his Lordship,
lowering his voice into a confidential whisper.  "Let us speak quite
frankly.  In a gigantic matter of this sort--a matter of millions--
certain palm-oil has to be applied--eh?"

The old man smiled, placed his hands together and nodded.

"Then let us go further," Lord Nassington went on.  "I submit in all
deference--and, of course, this conversation is strictly in private
between us, that should you think favourably of the scheme--my friends
should secretly place a certain sum, say one hundred thousand pounds
sterling at your Excellency's command, to apply in whatever way you may
think best to secure the success of the proposition.  Are you willing?"

The old man rose from his chair, and standing before the younger man
stretched forth his hand.

"Perfectly," he said as the other grasped it.  "We agree."

"And if I frame the form of the concession you will agree to it and, in
return for an undertaking of the payment of one hundred thousand pounds
into--where shall we say--into the head office of the Credit Lyonnais in
Paris in the name of your nominee, you will hand me the legal concession
confirmed by the Italian Government?"

"I agree to hand you the necessary documents within a fortnight,"
responded his Excellency.  "The adoption of motor-traction in the remote
districts for bringing wine and produce to the nearest railways will be
of the greatest boon to our country."

"Of course, my friends will leave the whole of the details, as far as
finance on your side is concerned, to you," his Lordship said.  "You can
administer the official backsheesh so much better than any one else."

"Within a fortnight you shall be able, my lord, to hand your friends the
actual concession for motor-transport throughout the kingdom of Italy."

For another half-hour they discussed certain details, Lord Nassington
talking big about his wealthy friends in London.  Then, with his
daughter and his niece, his Excellency accepted his guest's invitation
for a run out to Tivoli to take tea.

The "sixty" ran splendidly, and the Minister of the Interior was
delighted.  Before the girls, however, no business was discussed.
Velia's father, who, by the way had once been a clever advocate in
Milan, knew better than to mention affairs of State before women.

During the run, however, he found himself counting upon the
possibilities of Velia's marriage with the amiable young English
aristocrat who, upon his own initiative, had offered to place one
hundred thousand sterling unreservedly in his hands.  At most the
present Cabinet could last another year, and then--well, oblivion if
before then he did not line his nest snugly enough.  The thought of the
poor widows and orphans and starving populace down in Calabria sometimes
caused him a twinge of conscience.  But he only laughed and placed it
aside.  He had even been unscrupulous, and this young English peer was
his friend, he would use to best advantage.

Though Lord Nassington was an eligible husband for his daughter, yet,
after all, he was not a business man, but a wealthy "mug."  As such he
intended to treat him.

At the little _cafe_, near the falls, where they took tea the
conversation ran on motors and motoring, but his Excellency could not
disguise from himself that the young peer was entirely fascinated by his
good-looking daughter.

They lingered there until the mists began to rise and the red afterglow
was fast disappearing; then they ran past the sulphur springs and on the
broad highway back to the Eternal City at such a pace that his
Excellency's breath was taken away.  But Lord Nassington drove, and
notwithstanding the accident of two days previously, the Minister felt
himself perfectly safe in his hands.

Three weeks went by.  His Lordship took a flying visit to London, and
quickly returned.  Both he and the highly respectable clergyman of the
English church, the Reverend Thomas Clayton, became daily visitors at
the Peruzzi Palace.  In the Corso the pretty Signorina Boncini and her
cousin were often seen in his Lordship's car, and already the
gossip-loving world of Rome began to whisper that an engagement was
about to take place.

The valet, Charles, also made a quick journey to London and back, and
many telegrams were exchanged with a registered cable address in London.

One afternoon, in the private cabinet of that colossal building, the
Ministry of the Interior, his Excellency handed his English friend a
formidable document bearing many signatures with the official seal of
the Government embossed, a document which gave Lord Nassington the
exclusive right to establish motor-transport for both merchandise and
passengers upon every highway in the kingdom.  In exchange, his
Excellency received an undertaking signed by a responsible firm in the
City of London to place to the account of Madame Boncini at the Credit
Lyonnais in Paris the respectable sum of one hundred thousand pounds
within seven days.

"I shall return at once to London," his Lordship said replacing the
formidable document in its envelope, "and in exchange for this, the
financial group will at once pay in the sum to Madame's account in
Paris, while the actual sum for the concession will be paid here, in
Rome, to the Department of Finance, on the date stipulated."

"Benissimo," replied the grey-bearded statesman, holding one of his long
Toscano cigars in the candle which he had lit for that purpose.  "It is
all settled.  You will dine with us at home to-night."

His Lordship accepted, and after further discussion regarding several
minor details of the concession he rose and left.

That night he dined at the Peruzzi Palace, seated next his Excellency's
charming daughter, and next morning left the Excelsior in his big red
car, to run as far as Bologna and thence return to London by rail.

With her father's consent Velia her cousin and Signora Ciullini, her
aunt, accompanied him and they set out across the Maremma for
marble-built Pisa, where the girls were to return home by rail.

The more direct road was by Orvieto, but it is not so good as that wide,
open road across the fever-marshes of the Maremma, therefore his
Lordship resolved on taking the latter.

The day was glorious, and travelling for all they were worth with only
two stops to refill with petrol, they ran into Pisa late that same
night.  The sleeping-car express from Paris to Rome was due in half an
hour, therefore after a scrambling meal at the Victoria the aristocratic
motorist saw the girls and their aunt safely into the train--kissing
Velia in secret by the way--and waving them "addio," watched the train
glide out of the big echoing station again.

Then, with Garrett at his side, he turned the big car with its glaring
head-lights out of the big gates through the town along the Lung' Arno
and into the high road for Florence.

In the early morning he passed through the dimly-lit deserted streets of
the City of the Medici, and away beyond, through Prato, to the
foot-hills of the Appenines where he began to ascend that wonderfully
engineered military road which runs, with many dangerous turns for
motorists, high up across the mountain range, and ends in the long
colonnaded street of old Bologna.

It was noon ere he drew into the Piazza before the station, and giving
Garrett instructions to continue on to Milan and north to Berlin where
the car was to be garaged, he took the afternoon express for the
frontier at Chiasso, travelling thence _via_ Bale to Ostend and London.

On entering his snug chambers at five o'clock one afternoon, he found
Charles and the Parson smoking and awaiting him.  That evening the trio
held a long and earnest consultation.  The official document was
carefully examined, and the names of many city firms mentioned.  The
Parson seemed to possess a remarkable intimate knowledge of city life.

"Old Boncini is a clever old thief," remarked the reverend gentleman.
"He's feathering his nest finely--all the money in his wife's name."

"My dear fellow, half the Cabinet Ministers of Europe only use their
political influence in order to gain fortune.  Except the British
Government there isn't a single one which isn't corrupt."

"Well, Albert, my dear boy, you certainly seem to have got hold of a
good thing," the Parson remarked.  "His Corrupt Excellency seems to
place every faith in you.  Your four-flush was admirable all the time."

"It took a bit of working, I can tell you.  He's as slick as a rat."

"But he doesn't suspect anything wrong?"

"Hasn't the slightest idea of it, my dear Tommy.  He fancies I'm going
to marry his daughter.  The fat old mother is already imagining herself
mother-in-law of a British peer."

"Yes.  All Rome knows that you've fallen in love with the pretty Velia,
and that you've told her the tale.  What a fellow you are with the
ladies."

"Why?" he laughed taking a cigarette.  "They are all very charming and
delightful.  But in my career I generally manage to make them useful.
It's really remarkable what a woman will do in the interests of the man
whom she fancies is in love with her.  Fortunately, perhaps, for me,
I've only been in love once."

"And it resulted in a tragedy," remarked the Parson quietly, knowing
that he referred to the Princess.

His Lordship sighed, flinging himself down in his armchair, worn out by
long travel.

"My dear boy," he said with a weary sigh, "if I ever got married I'd
soon go mothy--everybody does.  Married people, whatever their position
in life, settle down into the monotonous groove that is the death of all
romance.  Before a man marries a girl they have little dinners together
at restaurants, and little suppers, and all seems so bright and gay
under the red candle-shades.  We see it on every hand.  But why should
it all be dropped for heavy meals and dulness, just because two people
who like one another have the marriage service read over them?"

The Parson laughed.  His friend was always amusing when he discussed the
question of matrimony.

During the next four days his Lordship, in the character of Mr
Tremlett--as he was known in certain circles in the City--was busy with
financiers to whom he offered the concession.  His story was that it had
been granted by the Italian Government to his cousin, Lord Nassington,
and that the latter had given it into his hands to negotiate.

In the various quarters where he offered it the concession caused a
flutter of excitement.  The shrewdest men in the City saw that it was a
good thing, and one after the other craved a day to think it over.  It
really was one of the best things that had been offered for a long time.
The terms required by the Italian Government were not at all heavy, and
huge profits were certain to be made out of such a monopoly.

The great tracts of fertile land in central and southern Italy would, by
means of motor-transport, be opened up to trade, while Tremlett's
picturesque story of how the concession had been snatched away from a
strong group of German financiers was, to more than one capitalist, most
fascinating.

Indeed he saw half a dozen of the most influential men in the City, and
before a week was out he had got together a syndicate which could
command a couple of millions sterling.

They were all of them shrewd men, however, and he saw that it behoved
him to be on the alert.  There is such a thing in the City as to be
"frozen out" of a good thing, even when one holds it in one's hand.

By dint of close watching and clever observation, he discovered
something, and this caused him to ponder deeply.  The syndicate
expressed themselves ready to treat, but for the present he was rather
unwilling.

Some hitches occurred on technicalities, and there were a number of
meetings to consider this point and that.  By all this Mr Tremlett saw
that he was losing time, and at the same moment he was not keeping faith
with the old statesman concerning the amount to be paid into Madame's
account in Paris.  At last one morning, after the Parson had left for an
unknown destination, he took a taxi-cab down to the City with a bold
resolve.

The five prominent financiers were seated together in an office in Old
Broad Street when Mr Tremlett, leaning back in his chair, said:

"Well, gentlemen, it seems that we are as far away as ever from coming
to terms, and I think it useless to discuss the matter further.  I must
take the business elsewhere."

"We admit," exclaimed an old bald man, a director of one of London's
largest banks, "that it is a good thing, but the price you ask is
prohibitive."

"I can get it in Paris.  So I shall go there," was Tremlett's prompt
reply.

"Well," exclaimed the bald man, "let's get straight to facts.  Your
cousin, Lord Nassington, wants sixty thousand pounds in cash for the
concession and a percentage of shares, and that, we have decided, is far
too much."

"Those are his figures," remarked Tremlett.

"Well, then all we can offer is one-half--thirty thousand in cash and
ten per cent, of shares in the company," said the other, "and," he
added, "I venture to say that ours is a very handsome offer."  Tremlett
rose from the table with a sarcastic smile.

"Let us talk of something else," he said.  "I haven't come down here to
the City to play at marbles."

"Well," asked the old man who was head of the syndicate.  "What are your
lowest terms?"

"I've stated them."

"But you don't give us time to inquire into the business," he
complained.

"I have shown you the actual concession.  Surely you are satisfied with
it!"

"We are."

"And I've told you the conditions of the contract.  Yet you postpone
your decision from day to day!"

The five men glanced at each other, rather uneasily Tremlett thought.

"Well," he went on.  "This is the last time I shall attend any meeting.
We come to a decision this morning, or the matter is off.  You,
gentlemen, don't even show _bona fides_!"

"Well, I think you know something of the standing of all of us," the
banker said.

"That is so.  But my cousin complains that he, having offered the
concession, you on your part do not attempt to show your intention to
take it up."

"But we do.  We wish to fix a price to-day," remarked another of the
men.

"A price, gentlemen, which is ridiculous," declared Tremlett.

The five men consulted together in undertones, and in the end advanced
their offer five thousand pounds.  At this Tremlett only shook his
shoulders.  A further five thousand was the result, and a long
discussion followed.

"Have you your cousin's authority to accept terms?" asked one of the
capitalists.

"I have."

"Then forty thousand is all we can offer."

Tremlett hesitated.

"I have a number of payments to make for bribery," he declared.  "It
will take half that sum."

"That does not concern us, my dear sir," said the bald-headed banker.
"We know that a concession such as this can only be obtained by the
judicious application of palm-oil."

"But I must pay out nearly twenty thousand almost immediately," Tremlett
said.

At this there was another long discussion, whereupon at last the
bald-headed man said:

"If the payment of the bribes is imperative at once, we will, on
consideration of the business being to-day concluded on a forty thousand
pound basis, hand you over half the sum at once.  That is our final
decision."

Tremlett was not at all anxious.  Indeed he took up his hat and cane,
and was about to leave, when two of the men present exercising all their
powers of persuasion, got him at last to reseat himself and to accept
the sum of twenty thousand pounds down, and twenty thousand thirty days
from that date, in addition to a percentage of shares in the company to
be formed.

Memoranda were drawn up and signed by all parties, whereupon Tremlett
took from his pocket the official concession and handed it to the head
of the syndicate.

That same afternoon, before four o'clock, he had received a draft for
twenty thousand pounds, with which he had opened an account in Charles's
name at a branch bank in Tottenham Court Road.

At nine o'clock that same evening he left for Paris, putting up at a
small obscure hotel near the Gare du Nord where he waited in patience
for nearly a week.

Once or twice he telegraphed, and received replies.

Late one night the Parson arrived unexpectedly and entered the shabby
bedroom where his Lordship was lounging in an armchair reading a French
novel.

He sprung up at the entrance of the round-faced cleric, saying:

"Well, Tommy?  How has it gone?  Tell me quick."

"You were quite right," exclaimed the clergyman.  "The crowd in London
were going behind your back.  They sent two clever men to Rome, and
those fellows tried to deal with Boncini direct.  They arrived the day
after I did, and they offered him an extra twenty thousand if he would
rescind your concession, and grant them a new one.  Boncini was too
avaricious and refused, so they then treated with you."

"I got twenty thousand," remarked his Lordship, "got it in cash safe in
the bank."

"Yes.  I got your wire."

"And what did you do?" asked his friend.

"I acted just as you ordered.  As soon as I was convinced that the
people in London were working behind our backs, I laid my plans.  Then
when your wire came that you'd netted the twenty thousand, I acted."

"How?"

"I took all the signed proof you gave me of old Boncini's acceptance of
the bribe, and of Madame's banking account at the Credit Lyonnais, to
that scoundrel Ricci, the red-hot Socialist deputy in the Chamber."

"And what did he say?" asked his Lordship breathlessly.

"Say!" echoed the other.  "He was delighted.  I spent the whole evening
with him.  Next day, he and his colleagues held a meeting, and that
afternoon he asked in the Chamber whether his Excellency, the Minister
of the Interior, had not been bribed by an English syndicate and put a
number of similarly awkward questions.  The Government had a difficulty
in evading the truth, but imagine the sensation when he waved proofs of
the corruptness of the Cabinet in the face of the House.  A terrible
scene of disorder ensued, and the greatest sensation has been caused.
Look here,"--and he handed his friend a copy of _Le Soir_.

At the head of a column on the front page were the words in French,
"Cabinet Crisis in Italy," and beneath, a telegram from Rome announcing
that in consequence of the exposure of grave scandals by the Socialists,
the Italian Cabinet had placed their resignations in the hands of his
Majesty.

"Serve that old thief Boncini right," declared his Lordship.  "He was
ready to sell me for an extra few thousands, but I fortunately got in
before him.  I wonder if the pretty Velia has still any aspirations to
enter the British peerage?"

And both men laughed merrily at thought of the nice little nest-egg they
had managed to filch so cleverly from the hands of five of the smartest
financiers in the City of London.

CHAPTER TEN.

LOVE AND THE OUTLAW.

"By Jove!"  I ejaculated, "Who's the girl, Prince?"

"That's Zorka.  Pretty, isn't she, Diprose?"

"Pretty!"  I echoed.  "Why, she's the most beautiful woman I've seen in
the whole of Servia!"

We were driving slowly together in the big "sixty" up the main street of
the city of Belgrade, and were at that moment passing the iron railings
of the palace of his Majesty King Peter.  It was a bright dry afternoon,
and the boulevard was thronged by a smart crowd, ladies in Paris-made
gowns, and officers in brilliant uniforms and white crosses with red and
white ribbons on their breasts.

Belgrade, though constantly in a ferment of political storm and stress,
and where rumours of plots against the throne are whispered nightly in
the corners of drawing-rooms, is, nevertheless, a quiet and pleasant
place.  Its picturesque situation, high up upon its rocks at the
confluence of the Save with the Danube, its pretty Kalemegdan gardens,
its wide boulevard and its pleasant suburbs, combine to offer
considerable attraction to the foreigner.  It is the gateway to eastern
Europe.  At quiet old Semlin--or Zimony--on the opposite bank of the
Danube is Hungary, the fringe of western Europe: in Belgrade the Orient
commences.

I happened to be at the Grand at Belgrade, and had there found the
Prince, or Reggie Martin, as he always called himself in the Balkans.
He was idling, with no apparent object.  Only the faithful Garrett was
with him.  Both Charles and the Parson he had left behind in London.
Therefore, I concluded that the reason of his presence in Servia was to
learn some diplomatic secret or other, for he only went to the Balkans
with that one object.

Of his business, the Prince seldom, if ever, spoke.  Even from his most
intimate associate, the Rev Thomas Clayton, he usually concealed his
ulterior object until it was attained.  The Parson, Garrett, and Charles
acted in blind obedience.  They were paid to obey, not to reason, he
often told them.

And so it was that although we had been together a week in King Peter's
capital, I was in entire ignorance of the reason of his presence there.

As we had brought the big car slowly along the boulevard, a dark-eyed
peasant-girl, with a face full of wondrous beauty, had nodded saucily to
him, and this had caused me to notice and admire her.  Belgrade is full
of pretty women, but not one was half so handsome.  She was about
twenty, I judged, and the manner in which her hair was dressed with the
gay- handkerchief upon it was in the style of unmarried women.

"I want to speak to her, to ask her a question," the Prince said
suddenly, after we had gone some distance.  And driving the car down
into the square we turned back in order to overtake her.

"An old friend of yours?"  I inquired.

"Yes, my dear Diprose," he laughed as he touched the button of the
electric horn.  "And a girl with a very remarkable past.  Her story
would make a good novel--by Jove it would."

Five minutes later we had overtaken her, and pulled up at the kerb.  The
girl blushed and appeared confused as my companion, stopping the car,
got down and stood at her side with his motor-cap raised.  He spoke to
her in his best Servian, for he knew a smattering of that difficult
language, and appeared to be inviting her to enter the car and come for
a run.

At first she was disinclined to accept the invitation, because of the
crowd of smart promenaders.  She was probably shy at being seen in the
company of two foreigners.  At last her curiosity as to what conveyance
by automobile might be got the better of her, and she reluctantly
entered the door held open for her.

Then Reggie introduced us, and got back to his seat at the wheel, I
mounting again to my place beside him.

In a few minutes we were out on the broad Semendria road, a fine
well-kept military highway, and on getting clear of the town, put on a
"move" until the speedometer before me registered fifty miles an hour.

Zorka, now alone with us, clapped her hands with childish delight.  She
was an Eastern beauty of rare type, with full red lips, magnificent
luminous eyes, and a pink and white complexion that any woman of Mayfair
would envy.

Ten miles from Belgrade, we stopped at a small wine-shop and had some
refreshment.  She sat at the little table before us laughing at me
because we could not understand each other.  In lieu of paying the
rustic beauty compliments, I raised my glass and bowed.  She accepted my
homage with queenly grace.  Indeed, in her peasant costume of scarlet
and black, with golden sequins on the bodice, she reminded me of a
heroine of opera.

We sat in the little garden above the broad blue Danube until the sun
grew golden with departing day, the Prince chatting with her and
laughing merrily.  He seemed to be asking many questions, while I, in my
curiosity, kept pestering him to tell the story of our beautiful
companion--the story which he had declared to be so remarkable and
romantic.

He had offered her one of his "Petroffs" from his gold cigarette-case,
and she was smoking with the air of one accustomed to the use of
tobacco.  Our eyes met suddenly, and blowing a cloud of smoke from her
pretty lips she suddenly burst out laughing.  Apparently she was
enjoying that unconventional meeting to its full bent.  She had never
before ridden in a motor-car--indeed, there are but few in Servia--and
the rush through the air had exhilarated her.  I noted her well-formed
hands, her splendid bust, and her slim, graceful figure, and I longed to
hear her story.  The Prince possessed, indeed, a wide circle of friends
ranging from princes of the blood down to peasants.

At last he made some remarks, whereupon our delightful little companion
grew suddenly silent, her great dark eyes fixed upon me.

"Zorka is not Servian, Diprose," the Prince began.  "She's Turkish.  And
this meeting to-day has recalled to me memories, of a strange and very
remarkable incident which occurred to me not so very long ago."  And
then he went on to relate the following chapter of his amazing
life-story.  I will here record it in his own words:

That silent night was glorious.  I shall preserve its memory for ever.

High up to that mountain fastness I was the first stranger to ascend,
for I was the guest of a wild tribe of Albanian brigands, those men of
the Skreli who from time to time hold up travellers to ransom, and
against whom the Turkish Government are powerless.

It was a weird, never-to-be-forgotten experience, living with those
tall, handsome fellows in white skin-tight woollen trousers with big
snake-like bands running up the legs, black furry boleros, and white
fezes.  Every man was armed to the teeth with great silver-hilted
pistols and long knives in their belts, and nobody went a dozen yards
without his rifle ready loaded.

Ever since the days before we were together at Cheltenham, Diprose, I
had read stories of brigands, but here was the real thing--the
free-booters of the mountains, who would never let me go about without a
dozen men as guard, lest I should be mistaken for a stranger and "picked
off" by one of the tribe lurking behind a rock.  Life is, indeed, cheap
in the Skreli country, that great range of inaccessible mountains east
of gallant little Montenegro.

On that night in the early autumn I was seated upon a rock with a tall,
thin, wiry, but handsome, young man, named Luk, known in his tribe as
"The Open Eye," whom the great chieftain, Vatt Marashi, had given me as
head of my body-guard, while beside was the dark-faced Albanian who,
speaking Italian, acted as my guide and interpreter.  Zorka was spinning
her flax close by.

In the domain of his Imperial Majesty the Sultan, the moon seems to
shine with far greater brilliancy than it does anywhere else in the
world, and surely the panorama of high mountain and deep dark valley
there spread before us was a veritable stage-picture, while the men at
my side were as romantic looking a pair as could be found anywhere in
real life.

Many times, as at night I lay down upon my humble bed of leaves, had I
reflected how insecure was my position, and how easily my hosts could
break their word, hold me to ransom, and worry the Foreign Office.  Yet,
let me here assert that all, from the chieftain, down to the humblest
tribesman, treated me with a kindness, courtesy, and forethought, that,
from the first, caused me to admire them.  They might be brigands, and
the blood-curdling stories of their cruelty might possibly be true, but
they were, without doubt, a most gentlemanly gang of ruffians.

We had eaten our evening meal, and were sitting in the calm night
smoking cigarettes, prior to turning in.  The two men beside me had
placed their rifles upon the ground, where the moonbeams glinted along
the bright barrels, and our conversation had become exhausted.

Below, in that dark valley, ran the mule-track to Ipek, therefore day
and night it was watched for passing travellers, as indeed were all the
paths at the confines of the territory over which my friend Vatt
Marashi, defiant of the Turks, ruled so firmly and yet so justly.

Luk, rolling a fresh cigarette, was making some remark to Palok, my
guide, in his peculiar soft-sounding but unwritten language, when it
suddenly occurred to me to ask him to give me some little reminiscence
of his own adventurous life.

He was silent for a few moments, his keen gaze upon the shining
rifle-barrel before him, then, with Palok translating into Italian, he
told me the story of how he earned his nickname of "The Open Eye."

About two years before, when his tribe were at feud with their
neighbours, the powerful Kastrati, who live in the opposite range of
mountains, he was one dark night with a party of his fellow tribesmen in
ambush, expecting a raid from their enemies.  The false alarms were
several when, of a sudden, Luk discerned a dark figure moving slowly in
the gloom.  Raising his rifle he was on the point of firing when some
impulse seized him to stay his hand and shout a challenge.

The reply was a frightened one--and in Turkish.

Luk came forth from his hiding-place, and a few seconds later, to his
great surprise, encountered the stranger, who proved to be a woman
wearing her veil, and enshrouded by an ugly black shawl wrapped about
her.  He knew sufficient Turkish to demand her name, and whence she had
come, but she refused to satisfy him.  She had already recognised by his
dress, that he was of the tribe of the Skreli, therefore she knew that
she had fallen into the hands of enemies.

"Speak!" he cried, believing her to be a spy from the Kastrati.  "Tell
me who sent you here to us?  Whither are you going?"

"I know not," was her reply in a sweet voice which told him at once that
she was quite young, and he, being unmarried, became instantly
interested.

"Where are you from?" he asked, expecting that she had come from Skodra,
the nearest Turkish town.

"From Constantinople," was her reply.

"Constantinople!" gasped Luk, to whom the capital was so far off as to
be only a mere city of legend.  It was, indeed, many hundred leagues
away.  In the darkness he could not see her eyes.  He could only
distinguish that the lower part of her face was veiled like that of all
Mahommedan women.

"And you have come here alone?" he asked.

"Yes, alone.  I--I could not remain in Constantinople longer.  Am I
still in Turkey?"

"Nominally, yes.  But the Sultan does not rule us here.  We, of the
Skreli, are Christians, and our country is a free one--to ourselves, but
not to our captives."

"Ah!" she said with failing heart.  "I see!  I am your captive--eh?  I
have heard in Constantinople how you treat the Turks whom you capture."

"You may have heard many stories, but I assure you that the Skreli never
maltreat a woman," was the brigand's proud answer.  "This path is unsafe
for you, and besides it is my duty to take you to our chief Vatt Marashi
that he may decide whether we give you safe conduct."

"No, no!" she implored.  "I have heard of him.  Take pity upon me--a
defenceless woman!  I--I thought to escape from Turkey.  I have no
passport, so I left the train and hoped to get across the mountains into
Montenegro, where I should be free."

"Then you have escaped from your harem--eh?" asked Luk, his curiosity
now thoroughly aroused.

"Yes.  But I have money here with me--and my jewels.  I will pay you--
pay you well, if you will help me.  Ah! you do not know!"

Luk was silent for a moment.

"When a woman is in distress the Skreli give their assistance without
payment," was his reply, and then, as day was breaking, he led her up
the steep and secret paths to that little settlement where we now were--
the headquarters of the all-powerful Vatt Marashi.

At the latter's orders she unwound the veil from her face, disclosing
the beautiful countenance of a Turkish girl of eighteen, and when she
took off her cloak it was seen that beneath she wore a beautiful harem
dress, big, baggy trousers of rich mauve and gold brocade, and a little
bolero of amaranth velvet richly embroidered with gold.  Upon her neck
were splendid emeralds, pearls, and turquoises, and upon her wrists fine
bracelets encrusted with diamonds.

She stood in the lowly hut before the chief and her captor Luk, a vision
of perfect beauty--looking "a veritable houri as promised by Mahommed,"
as Luk put it.

Vatt Marashi listened to her story.  She had, she told him, escaped from
her father's harem because she was betrothed, as is usual in Turkey, to
a man whom she had never seen.  She had taken money from the place where
one of the black eunuchs hoarded it, and with the assistance of a young
officer, a cousin of hers, had succeeded in leaving the capital in the
baggage-waggon of the Orient Express.  Unable to procure a passport,
however, she dare not attempt to cross the frontier into Bulgaria, for
she would at once be detected, refused permission to travel, and sent
back.  For a Turkish woman to attempt to leave Turkey in that manner the
punishment is death.  So at some small station near the frontier, the
name of which she did not know, she had, under cover of night, left the
train, and taken to the mountains.  For four days she had wandered
alone, until Luk had discovered her.

"And what was done with her?"  I inquired, much interested.

"Well," replied my companion.  "She elected to remain with us, our chief
giving her assurance that she would be well and honourably treated.  He
pointed out that had she been a man he would have demanded of the Sultan
a heavy ransom for her release, but as she was a defenceless woman, and
alone, she was not to remain a prisoner.  If she cared to accept the
offer of the protection of the Skreli, then every man of his tribe would
defend her, and her honour to the last drop of blood remaining in their
veins.  The word of Skreli, once given, is, as you know, never broken."

And his was no idle boast.  The code of honour among the tribes of
Northern Albania would put even ours of England to the blush.  The
Skreli are very bad enemies, but they are, as I know from personal
experience, most firm and devoted friends.

"And so it came about," Luk went on, "that Zorka--that was her name--was
placed in my mother's charge, and discarded her veil, as do our own
women.  Well--I suppose I may confess it--I loved her.  It was only to
be expected, I suppose, for she was very lovely, and every unmarried man
in the tribe was her devoted admirer.  Though she lived with us, no word
of affection passed between us.  Why should it?  Would it not have been
folly?--she the daughter of a great Pasha who was seeking for her all
over Turkey, and I a poor humble tribesman, and a Christian into the
bargain?  And so a year went over.  We often walked together, and the
others envied me my friendship with the delicate and beautiful girl who
preferred our free untrammelled life of the mountains to the constant
confinement of her father's harem on the Bosphorus.  Unlike that of our
women, her skin was lily white, and her little hands as soft as satin.
Ah! yes, I loved her with all my soul, though I never dared to tell her
so.  She became as a sister to me, as a daughter to my mother.  It was
she who said the last word to me when I went forth upon a raid; she who
waited to welcome me on my return."

"And you said nothing," I remarked, with some surprise.

"Nothing.  Our chief had ordered that no man should declare his love to
her.  She was our guest, like yourself, and she was therefore sacred.
Well," he went on, gazing thoughtfully across the dark valley, the white
moonbeams shining full upon his thin, sun-tanned countenance.  "One day
our men down yonder, on the northern border, discovered three strangers
who were examining the rocks and chipping pieces off--French mining
engineers we afterwards found them to be.  They were captured, brought
up here, and held to ransom.  Two were elderly men, but the third was
about twenty-eight, well-dressed with a quantity of French banknotes
upon him.  At first the price we asked of the Sultan was too high.  The
Vali of Skodra refused to pay, but suggested a smaller sum.  We were in
no hurry to compromise, so the three remained prisoners, and--"

"And what?"

"Well, during that time the younger of the three saw Zorka, and fell in
love with her.  I caught the pair one night walking together.  They sat
here, at this very spot.  The Frenchman had been in Constantinople, and,
speaking a little Turkish, could converse with her.  I crept up and
overheard some of their conversation.  Next day I told the chief, and
when he heard it he was angry, and ordered that the prisoners were to be
released and sent away--without ransom--that very day.  Zorka was one of
ourselves.  So that afternoon the three strangers were escorted down to
the Skodra road, and there told to begone."

Here Luk broke off, slowly rolling a fresh cigarette in silence.  By the
light of the brilliant moon I saw the sudden change in his countenance.

"Well?"  I asked.

"There is not much more to tell," he said hoarsely, hard lines showing
at the corners of his mouth.  "A few weeks later we one night missed
Zorka.  The whole tribe went forth to search for her.  Some men of the
Hoti, down on the way to Skodra, had seen a woman pass.  Vatt Marashi
took me with some others down to the lake-side, where we heard that she
had escaped on the little steamer that runs up the lake to Ryeka, in
Montenegro.  And further that she had a male companion who, from his
description, we knew to be the Frenchman whose life we had spared.  With
the man was an elderly woman.  He had evidently returned to Skodra, and
sent Zorka a message in secret.  At risk of arrest by the Turks we went
down into Skodra itself, and saw the captain of the steamer, from whom
we learnt that the Frenchman's name was Paul Darbour, and that he was a
mining engineer, living in Paris.  While on the boat he had chatted to
the captain in French, and mentioned that he was going first to Ragusa,
down on the Dalmatian coast.  The Skreli punish an insult to their women
with death, therefore that same night, upon the lake shore, we twelve
men and our good chief raised the blood-feud, and I was ordered to go
forth in search of the man who had enticed away our Zorka.  None of
them, however knew how deeply I loved her myself.  Well, I left, wearing
the Montenegrin dress, the blue baggy trousers, scarlet jacket, and
pork-pie hat.  Through Montenegro, down to Cattaro, I followed them, and
took the steamer along the Adriatic to Ragusa.  But they had already
left.  For a month I followed the trio from place to place, until late
one night, in Trieste, I met Zorka in European dress, walking with her
lover along the quays.  He was speaking sharply to her, evidently trying
to induce her to act against her will, for she was weeping bitterly.  I
crept after them unseen in the shadows.  From words she let drop in
Turkish I knew that he was treating her with cruelty, now that he had
got her in his power--that she bitterly regretted listening to his
love-speeches.  I clenched my teeth, took a few sharp steps, and next
instant my keen knife was buried up to the hilt behind our enemy's
shoulder.  He fell forward almost without a cry."

"And Zorka?"  I asked.

"I brought her safely back again to us," was his simple answer.  "See.
She is my wife!"

Luk is here, outside Belgrade, the Prince added.  But in secret, for a
price is set upon his head.  He is a Turkish brigand, and he and his
band terrorise the Montenegrin border.  The Servian Government offered,
only a month ago, twenty thousand dinars for his capture.  They little
dream he is in hiding in a cave over in yonder mountain, and that he is
supplied with food by his faithful little wife here!

And true sportsman that he was, he raised his glass again to her--and to
her husband.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

TOUCHING THE WIDOW'S MITE.

ONE.

The Prince, keen motorist that he was, had--attended by the faithful
Garrett, of course--been executing some remarkably quick performances on
the Brooklands track.

About a month before he had purchased a hundred horse-power racing-car,
and now devoted a good deal of his time to the gentle art of
record-breaking.  Some of his times for "the mile" had been very
creditable, and as Mr Richard Drummond, son of a Manchester cotton
magnate, his name was constantly appearing in the motor journals.
Having for the time being discarded the purple, and with it his cosy
chambers off Piccadilly, he had now taken up his quarters at that small
hotel so greatly patronised by motorists, the "Hut," on the Ripley Road.

Among the many road-scouts, with their red discs, in that vicinity he
had become extremely popular on account of his generosity in tips, while
to the police with his ugly grey low-built car with its two seats behind
the long bonnet he was a perpetual source of annoyance.

Though he never exceeded the speed limit--in sight of the police--yet
his open exhaust roared and throbbed, while his siren was the most
ear-piercing of any on the road.  A little bit of business up in
Staffordshire which he had recently brought to a successful issue by the
aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson, and Mr Max Mason, had placed
them all in funds, and while the worthy Bayswater vicar was taking his
ease at the "Majestic" up at Harrogate--where, by the way, he had become
extremely popular among his fellow guests--Mason was at the Bath at
Bournemouth for a change of air.

To the guests at Harrogate the Rev Thomas Clayton had told the usual
tale which seems to be on the lips of every cleric, no matter how snug
his living--that of the poor parish, universal suffering, hard work,
small stipend, ailing wife and several small children.  Indeed, he
admitted to one or two of the religious old ladies whose acquaintance he
had made, that some of his wealthier parishioners, owing to his nervous
breakdown, had subscribed in order to send him there for a month's
holiday.

Thus he had become indispensable to the tea-and-tattle circle, and the
ladies soon began to refer to him as "that dear Mr Clayton."  With one
of them, a certain wealthy widow named Edmondson, he had become a
particular favourite, a fact which he had communicated in a letter to
the good-looking motorist now living at the pretty wayside inn in front
of the lake on the Ripley Road.

While the Parson was enjoying a most decorous time with the
philanthropic widow, Dick Drummond, as he soon became known, had
cultivated popularity in the motor-world.  To men in some walks of life,
and especially to those on the crooked by-paths, popularity is a very
dangerous thing.  Indeed, as the Prince had on many occasions pointed
out in confidence to me, his popularity greatly troubled him, making it
daily more difficult for him to conceal his identity.

At that moment, because he had lowered a record at Brooklands, he was
living in daily terror of being photographed, and having his picture
published in one or other of the illustrated papers.  If this did occur,
then was it not more than likely that somebody would identify Dick
Drummond the motorist, with the handsome Prince Albert of
Hesse-Holstein?

He led a life of ease and comfort in all else, save this constant dread
of recognition, and was seriously contemplating a sudden trip across the
Channel with a run through France and Germany when he one morning
received a registered letter bearing the Harrogate postmark.

He read it through half a dozen times.  Then he burned it.

Afterwards he lit a "Petroff" and went out for a stroll in the sunshine
along the road towards Ripley village.

"It's really wonderful how clerical clothes and a drawling voice attract
a woman.  They become fascinated, just as they do when they meet a
Prince.  By Jove!" he laughed merrily to himself.  "What fools some
women--and men, too, for the matter of that--make of themselves!  They
never trouble to institute inquiry, but accept you just at your own
value.  Take myself as an instance!  In all these four years nobody has
ever discovered that I'm not Prince Albert.  Nobody has taken the
trouble to trace the real prince to his safe abode, the Sanatorium of
Wismar.  Yet the great difficulty is that I cannot always remain a
prince."

Then he strode along for some time in thoughtful silence.  In his
well-cut blue serge suit and peaked motor-cap he presented the smart
devil-may-care figure of a man who would attract most women.  Indeed, he
was essentially a ladies' man, but he always managed to turn his amorous
adventures to monetary advantage.

Only once in his life had he been honestly in love.  The tragic story of
his romance in Florence I have already explained in a previous chapter.
His thoughts were always of his real princess--ever of her.  She had
been his ideal, and would always remain so.  He had defended her good
name, but dared not return to her and expose himself as a fraud and a
criminal.  Better by far for her to remain in ignorance of the truth;
better that he should possess only sweet sad memories of her soft lips
and tender hands.

As he walked, a young man passed in a dirty white racing-car, on his way
to Brooklands, and waved to him.  It was George Hartwell, the holder of
the one-mile record, and an intimate friend of his.

The Prince was debating within himself whether he should adopt the
Parson's suggestion, abandon motor-racing for the nonce, and join him up
in Yorkshire.

"I wonder whether the game's worth the candle?" he went on, speaking to
himself after the cloud of dust has passed.  "If what Clayton says is
true, then it's a good thing.  The old woman is evidently gone on him.
I suppose he's told her the tale, and she believes he's a most
sanctified person."

He halted at a gate near the entrance to Ripley village, and lighting
another cigarette puffed vigorously at it.

"My hat!" he ejaculated at last.  "A real parson must have an
exceedingly soft time of it--snug library, pretty girls in the choir,
tea-fights, confidences, and all that kind of thing.  In the country no
home is complete without its tame curate."  Then, after a long silence,
he at length tossed away the end of his cigarette, and declared:

"Yes, I'll go.  There'll be a bit of fun--if nothing else."

And he walked to the village telegraph office and wired one word to his
bosom friend and ingenious accomplice.  It was a word of their secret
code--Formice--which Clayton would interpret as "All right.  Shall be
with you as soon as possible, and will carry out the suggestions made in
your letter."

Then he walked back to the "Hut," where he found Garrett sitting out in
that little front garden against the road, which is usually so crowded
by motorists on warm Sunday afternoons.

"Better go and pack," he said sinking into a chair as his supposed
servant rose and stood at attention.  "We're going back to town in an
hour."

Garrett, without asking questions, returned into the hotel.  He saw by
the Prince's sharp decided manner that something new was in the wind.

An hour later Dick Drummond motor-maniac, drew the car along the road
towards Esher, and as he disappeared around the bend among the trees, he
ceased to exist.  Prince Albert became himself again.

Direct to Dover Street they went--and there found the discreet Charles
awaiting them.  Fresh kit was packed while Garrett, in a garage over in
Westminster where he was unknown, was busily engaged in repainting the
ugly racer with its big bonnet a bright yellow.

That evening the Prince spent alone in his pretty sitting-room consuming
dozens of his pet Russian cigarettes, and thinking hard.  For an hour he
was busy upon some accounts written in German--accounts from a Jew
dealer in precious stones in Amsterdam.  The gentleman in question was a
good customer of the Prince's, gave fair prices, and asked no questions.
His Highness seemed troubled about one item, for as he rested his brow
upon his hand, still seated at his desk, he murmured in a low voice to
himself:

"I'm sure the old Hebrew has done me out of four hundred and fifty!
Eighteen hundred was the price agreed for that carroty-headed woman's
pendant.  That's what comes of leaving business matters to Max."  And
sighing, he added: "I shall really have to attend to the sales myself,
for no doubt we're swindled every time.  The old Jew doesn't believe in
honour among thieves, it seems!"

Some letters which had arrived during his absence were put before him by
the valet, Charles.  Among them were several invitations to the houses
of people struggling to get into society--by the back door, and who
wanted to include the name of Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein in the
list of their guests.

"Are we likely to be away for long?" asked the valet, at the same time
helping himself to a cigarette from his master's silver box.

"I haven't the slightest idea," laughed the good-looking young
adventurer.  "You'll go down to the `Majestic' at Harrogate by the first
train in the morning and take the best suite for me.  Garrett and I will
arrive in the car.  Of course you'll tell the usual story to the
servants of my wealth, and all that."

"The Parson's down there, isn't he?"

"Yes, but you'll take no notice of him.  Understand?"

So the smart young crook who posed as valet, having received his
master's instructions, retired to pack his own clothes.

At ten next morning Garrett brought round the hundred "racer," now
covered in yellow enamel and bearing a different identification-plate
from that it had borne the previous day, and with the Prince up beside
him wearing a light dust-coat and his peaked cap turned the wrong way,
so as not to catch the wind, drew out into Piccadilly, and turned up
Shaftesbury Avenue due northward.

Throughout that warm summer's day they tore along the Great North Road
as far as Doncaster, wary always of the police-traps which abound there.
Then, after a light meal, they pushed on to Ferrybridge, taking the
right-hand road through Micklefield to the cross-roads beyond Aberford,
and then on the well-kept old Roman way which runs through Wetherby to
Plampton Corner, and ascends the hill into Harrogate.

The last forty miles they did at tearing speed, the great powerful
engine running like a clock, leaving a perfect wall of white dust
behind.  The car was a "flyer" in every sense of the word.  The Prince
had won the Heath Stakes at Brooklands, therefore, on an open road,
without traffic or police-traps, they covered the last forty miles
within the hour.

The sun had already sunk, and the crimson afterglow had spread before
they reached the Stray, but as the car drew up before the great hotel,
Charles, bareheaded and urbane, came forth to receive his master, while
behind him stood the assistant manager and a couple of attendants also
in bareheaded servitude.

Charles, who always acted as advance-agent had already created great
excitement in the hotel by the announcement that his Highness was on his
way.  Quite a small crowd of visitors had concluded their dinner early,
and assembled in the hall to catch first sight of the German princeling
who preferred residence in England to that in his native principality.

As he passed across the great hall and entered the lift, dusty after his
journey, his quick eyes caught sight of the sedate modest-looking parson
seated away from the others, chatting with a rather buxom,
florid-looking, red-necked woman of about fifty.

The Parson had his face purposely averted.  At present he did not wish
to claim acquaintance with the new-comer, whom he allowed to ascend to
the fine suite of rooms reserved for him.

Next morning, as the Prince crossed the hall to go out for a stroll
about the town he created quite a flutter in the hotel, especially among
the female guests.  The place was filled by summer holiday-makers from
London, each of whom was eager to rub elbows with a real live Prince.
Indeed many were the flattering words whispered by pretty lips regarding
his Highness's good looks and general bearing.

The worthy Bayswater vicar was chatting with Mrs Edmondson in his usual
clerical drawl, when the Prince's sudden appearance caused him to look
up.  Then turning to her again, he exclaimed:

"Oh, here's Prince Albert!  I knew him quite well when I was British
chaplain in Hanover," and crossing to his Highness he shook hands
heartily, adding in the next breath: "I wonder if your Highness would
allow me to present to you my friend here, Mrs Edmondson?"

"Delighted, I'm sure," replied the younger man bowing before the rather
stout, dark-haired lady, whose blatant pomposity crumpled up instantly,
and who became red and white in turns.

The introduction had been effected so suddenly that the relict of Thomas
Edmondson, Esquire, J.P., D.L., of Milnthorpe Hall, near Whitby, had
been taken completely off her feet--or "off her perch," as the merry
cleric afterwards jocosely put it.  She knew Mr Clayton to be a most
superior person, but had no idea of his intimate acquaintance with
princes of the blood-royal.

She succeeded in stammering some conventional expressions of pleasure at
being presented, and then lapsed into ignominious silence.

"Mrs Edmondson has kindly expressed herself very interested in my poor
parish," explained the Parson, "just as your Highness has been
interested.  I wrote to you a month ago to Aix-les-Bains, thanking you
for your generous donation towards our Children's Holiday Fund.  It was
really extremely kind of you."

"Oh, don't mention it, Mr Clayton," replied his Highness.  "I've been
in your parish twice, remember, and I know well how very hard you work,
and what a number of the deserving poor you have.  I'm just going down
in the town for a stroll.  Perhaps I'll see you after lunch?  Come to my
room for a smoke."

And then, bowing to the obese widow, he replaced his grey felt hat and
strode out.

"What a very charming man!" declared the widow when she recovered
herself sufficiently to speak.  "So he has been to your parish!"

"Oh, yes.  He gives me most liberal donations," answered Clayton in a
low tone of confidence.  "But he always prefers to remain anonymous, of
course.  He has been my best friend for years.  I had no idea he was in
England.  He wrote me last from Aix."

But the widow's brain was already active.  Though possessing a deep
religious feeling, and subscribing liberally to all sorts of charities
just as her late husband had done, she was nevertheless a snob, and was
already wondering whether, with the assistance of the pleasant-faced
cleric, she could not induce the Prince to be her guest at Milnthorpe.
She knew that his presence there would give to her house a _cachet_
which had always been lacking, and would raise her social position in
the select county of Yorks a hundred per cent.

"Most delightful man!" she repeated as they went forth into the grounds.
"I hope I shall have the pleasure of a long chat with him."

"Oh, that won't be very difficult, my dear Mrs Edmondson," her
companion replied.  "Any one introduced by me will, I feel assured, be
received most cordially by him.  He does me the honour of reposing the
most implicit trust in myself."

"A trust which certainly is not misplaced," declared the stout widow in
her self-satisfied way, as she strutted along in a new grey cotton gown
of latest _mode_, a large hat to match, a big golden chatelaine at her
side, and a blue silk sunshade.

"You are very flattering," replied Clayton.  "I--I fear I do not deserve
such kind words, I only do my duty to my bishop and my parish, and
prosecute the line of life which Providence has laid out for me."

"There are clergymen--and clergymen," the woman said with affected
wisdom.  "I have known more than one who has been utterly worthless.  It
is, therefore, very gratifying to meet a man with such a high mind, and
such a keen sense of responsibility towards his poor backsliding fellow
creatures as yourself."

He was silent, for he was biting his nether lip.  What would this
estimable widow think if she knew the truth that he had no parish, no
wife, no little children, and that he had no right to the sombre garb of
religion in which he stood before her?

A moment later he succeeded in changing the subject.

The Prince lunched alone in his private room, as he always did in hotels
in order to impress both management and guests.  It was another habit of
his, in order to cause servants to talk, to have a big bottle of eau de
Cologne placed in his bath each morning.  The chatter of servants as to
his generosity, and his careless extravagance, was often most useful to
him.  While the Parson was always parsimonious--which, by the way, was
rather belied by his rubicund complexion--the Prince was ever
open-handed.

The good-looking, well-dressed young man's slight foreign accent
entirely disappeared whenever he became Tremlett or Lord Nassington, or
Drummond, or any other imaginary person whose identity he from time to
time assumed.  At present, however, he spoke with just sufficient error
of grammar and speech to betray his foreign birth, and as he rose, and
stood looking out of the window he presented, in his cool, grey
flannels, the ideal young foreign prince of English tastes and English
education.

Already in the reading-room below, the "Almanach de Gotha" had been
handled a dozen times by inquisitive half-pay colonels, and mothers with
marriageable daughters.  And what had been found printed there had
caused a flutter in many hearts.

The Prince's audacity was superb.  The suspicion of any little _coup_ he
made as prince he always managed to wriggle out of.  Even though some
evil-disposed persons had made ugly allegations against him at times,
yet they were not believed.  He was a prince and wealthy, therefore what
motive had he to descend to the level of a thief?  The Parson, too,
always managed to evade suspicion.  His voice, his manner, and his
general get-up were perfect.

Those who had visited his house in Bayswater, not far from Queen's Road
station, had found it to be the ideal and complete clergyman's home,
with study and half-written sermons on the writing-table.

Their victims, indeed, were as puzzled as were the police.  The Prince's
magnificent impertinence and amazing boldness carried him through it
all.  He was a fatalist.  If he and his friends Clayton, Garrett, and
Mason were ever caught--well it would be just Fate.  Till they actually
fell into the hands of the police they would have a good time, and act
fearlessly.

As he stood at the window, with the eternal Russian cigarette between
his lips, gazing thoughtfully out upon the garden below, the door opened
and the Parson entered.

"Well, Tommy, old chap!" exclaimed his Highness, when in a few moments
the two men were lounging in easy-chairs opposite each other.  "Now,
tell me all about the old girl," he said laughing.  "She walks like a
pea-hen."

"There's not much more to tell than what you already know," responded
the Parson, "except that she's all in a flutter at meeting you, and
wants to chat with you again."

"Have you made any inquiries concerning her?"

"Of course.  A week ago I ran over in secret to Milnthorpe Hall.  Fine
place, big park, large staff of servants, butler an Italian.  Husband
was partner in a firm of shipbuilders at Barrow, and left nearly a
million to his wife.  One son recently passed into the Army, and just
now stationed in Cawnpore.  Rather rackety, his mother says.  The old
woman dotes on parsons."

"And quite gone on you--eh?"  Clayton laughed.

"She gave me a cheque for fifty pounds for my Children's Holiday Fund
last week," he said.  "She's promised to come down and go round my
parish one day, soon."  His Highness smiled knowingly.

"Is her place far from Whitby?" he inquired, between whiffs of his
cigarette.

"About four miles, on the high road just past a place called Swarthoe
Cross.  Grosmount station, on the Pickering line is nearest."

"The old girl, as far as I've been able to observe, is a purse-proud old
crow," his Highness remarked.

"Rather.  Likes her name to figure in subscription lists.  The old man
built and endowed some almshouses in Whitby, and offered twenty thousand
to his Party for a knighthood, but was refused.  It's a sore point, for
she badly wanted to be Lady Edmondson."

"How long since the dear one departed?"

"Two years."

"And she's looking for a second, I suppose?"

"That's my belief."

"I wonder if she'd be attracted by the title of princess?" he laughed.

"Why, the very suggestion would take the silly old woman's breath away,"
declared the Reverend Thomas.

"Well, if she's so confoundedly generous, what is to prevent us from
benefiting a bit?  We sadly need it, Tommy," the Prince declared.  "I
had a letter from Max the day before yesterday.  He wants fifty wired
without fail to the Poste Restante at Copenhagen.  He's lying low there,
just now."

"And one of the best places in Europe," the Parson exclaimed.  "It's
most snug at the `Angleterre,' or at the `Bristol.'  I put in six months
there once.  Stockholm is another good spot.  I was all one summer at
that little hotel out at Salsjobaden, and had quite a good time.  I
passed as an American and nobody recognised me, though my description
had been circulated all over Europe.  The Swedish and Danish police are
a muddle-headed lot--fortunately for fellows like ourselves who want to
lie undisturbed.  Have you sent Max the money?"

"I wired twenty-five this morning, and promised the balance in seven
days," responded his Highness, lighting a fresh cigarette with his
half-consumed one.  He always smoked in the Russian style, flinging away
the end when only half finished.

Of the proceeds of the various _coups_ made, his Highness took
one-third, with one-third to Clayton, who was a schemer almost as
ingenious as the Prince himself, and the remaining third was divided
between Max Mason, Charles, and Garrett, the chauffeur.

The pair of conspirators spent the greater part of the afternoon
together in exchanging confidences and arranging plans.  Then his
Highness rang for Garrett, and ordered him to bring round the car at
five o'clock.

The Parson descended to the hall below, being followed ten minutes later
by his Highness.  The latter found his friend lounging picturesquely
with the fascinated widow, and joined them at tea, greatly to the
gratification of the "pompous old crow," as Prince Albert had designated
her half an hour before.

As they finished the tea and muffins, the big yellow racing-car drew
slowly up to the door, and on seeing it the widow began to discuss
motors and motoring.

"I have a car at home--a sixty-Mercedes--and I'm awfully fond of a run
in it," she told the Prince.  "One gets about so quickly, and sees so
much of the country.  My poor husband hated them, so I never rode in one
until after his death."

"The car I have with me is a racer, as you see," remarked his Highness.
"It's a hundred horse-power, and made a record on the Brooklands track
just before I bought her.  If you were not of the feminine sex, Mrs
Edmondson, I'd invite you to go for a run with me," he laughed.  "It's
rather unsociable, for it's only a two-seater, with Garrett on the
step."

"I'd love to go for a run," she declared.  "It--well it really wouldn't
be too great a breach of the convenances for a woman to go out on a
racing-car, would it?"

"I don't think so, Mrs Edmondson," remarked the Reverend Thomas, in his
most cultivated clerical drawl.  "But I would wrap up well, for the
Prince travels very fast on a clear road."

So "the old crow" decided to accept his Highness's invitation, and
ascended to put on her brown motor-cap and veil and a thick coat against
the chill, evening winds.

TWO.

A quarter of an hour later, with Garrett--in his grey and red livery--
seated on the step, and the widow up beside him, the Prince drew the
great ugly yellow car out of the hotel entrance, while the Parson,
standing amid the crowd of jealous onlookers, waved his hand in merry
farewell.

In a few moments the siren screamed, and the open exhaust roared and
spluttered as they crossed the Stray, taking the road through Starbeck
to Knaresborough, thence south by Little Ribston to Wetherby.

Having turned off to the left through the town, they came upon a
straight open road where, for the first time his Highness, accustomed as
he was to all the vagaries of his powerful car, put on a "move" over the
ten miles into York, a run at such a pace that the widow clung to her
seat with both hands, almost breathless.

She had never travelled half so fast before in all her life.

In York they ran round by the station past the old grey minster, then
out again through Clifton, as far as Shipton Moor, turning up to
Beningborough station, and thence into the by-roads to Newton-upon-Ouse,
in the direction of Knaresborough.

Once or twice while they tore along regardless of speed-limits or of
police-traps, the powerful engine throbbing before them, she turned to
his Highness and tried to make some remarks.  But it was only a sorry
attempt.  Travelling at fifty miles an hour over those white roads,
without a glass screen, or even body to the car, was very exhilarating,
and after the first few minutes of fright, at the tearing pace, she
seemed to delight in it.  Curious though it is, yet it is nevertheless a
fact that women delight in a faster pace in a car than men, when once
the first sensation of danger has passed.

When they were safely back again in the hall of the hotel she turned to
him to express her great delight at the run.

"Your car is, indeed, a magnificent one, your Highness.  I've never been
on a racer before," she said, "but it was truly delightful.  I never had
a moment's anxiety, for you are such a sure and clever driver."

Her eye had been from time to time upon the speedometer, and she had
noted the terrific rate at which they had now and then travelled,
especially upon any downward incline.

The Prince, on his part, was playing the exquisite courtier.  Had she
been a girl of twenty he could not have paid "old crow" more attention.

As he was dressing for dinner with the aid of the faithful Charles, the
Parson entered, and to him he gave an accurate description of the run,
and of the rather amorous attitude the obese widow had assumed towards
him.

"Good, my dear boy," exclaimed the urbane cleric, "I told you that she's
the most perfect specimen of the snob we've ever met."

A week went by--a pleasant week, during which Mrs Edmondson, her nose
now an inch higher in the air than formerly, went out daily with the
Prince and his chauffeur for runs around the West Riding.

One afternoon they ran over to Ripon, and thence across to the fine old
ruins of Fountains Abbey.  Like many women of her class and character,
the buxom lady delighted in monastic ruins, and as the pair strolled
about in the great, roofless transept of the Abbey she commenced an
enthusiastic admiration of its architecture and dimensions.  Though
living at Whitby she had, curiously enough, never before visited the
place.

"Crowland, in Lincolnshire is very fine," she remarked, "but this is far
finer.  Yet we have nothing in England to compare with Pavia, near
Milan.  Have you ever been there, Prince?"

"Only through the station," his Highness replied.  Truth to tell he was
not enthusiastic over ruins.  He was a very modern up-to-date young man.

They idled through the ruins, where the sunshine slanted through the
gaunt broken windows, and the cawing rooks flapped lazily in and out.
One or two other visitors were there besides themselves, and among them
a lonely pale-faced man in grey, wearing gold pince-nez who, with hands
behind his back, was studying the architecture and the various
outbuildings.

The Prince and his companion brushed close by him in the old refectory,
when he glanced up suddenly at a window.

His face was familiar enough to his Highness, who, however, passed him
by as a stranger.

It was Max Mason, only yesterday returned from Copenhagen.

That afternoon the widow grew confidential with her princely cavalier in
motor clothes, while he, on his part, encouraged her.

"Ah!" he sighed presently as they were walking slowly together in a
distant part of the great ruined fabric.  "You have no idea how very
lonely a man can really be, even though he may be born a prince.  More
often than not I'm compelled to live _incognito_, for I have ever upon
me the fierce glare of publicity.  Every movement, every acquaintance I
make, even my most private affairs are pried into and chronicled by
those confounded press fellows.  And for that reason I'm often compelled
to hold aloof from people with whom I could otherwise be on terms of
intimate friendship.  Half my time and ingenuity is spent upon the
adoption of subterfuges to prevent people from discovering who I really
am.  And then those infernal illustrated papers, both here and on the
Continent, are eternally republishing my photograph."

"It really must be most annoying, Prince," remarked the widow
sympathetically.

"I often adopt the name of Burchell-Laing," he said, "and sometimes--
well," and he paused, looking her straight in the face.  "I wonder, Mrs
Edmondson, whether I might confide in you--I mean whether you would keep
my secret?"

"I hope I may be permitted to call myself your Highness's friend," she
said in a calm, impressive tone.  "Whatever you may tell me will not, I
assure you, pass my lips."

"I am delighted to have such a friend as yourself," he declared
enthusiastically.  "Somehow, though our acquaintanceship has been of
such brief duration, yet I feel that your friendship is sincere, Mrs
Edmondson."

By this speech the widow was intensely flattered.  Her companion saw it
in her countenance.

He did not allow her time to make any remark, but added: "My secret is--
well a rather curious one, perhaps--but the fact is that I have a dual
personality.  While being Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, I am also
known as Dick Drummond, holder of two records on the Brooklands
motor-track.  In the motor-world I'm believed to be a young man of
means, who devotes his time to motor-racing--a motor-maniac in fact."

The widow stared at him in blank astonishment.

"Are you really the Mr Drummond of whose wonderful feat I read of only
the other day in the papers?"

"I won the race at Brooklands the other day," he said carelessly, "I won
it with the car I have here now."

"And nobody suspects that this Mr Drummond is a prince!" she exclaimed.

"Nobody.  I could never afford to go racing in my own name.  The Kaiser
would not allow it, you know.  I have to be so very careful."

"I quite understand that," remarked the widow.  "But what an excellent
motor-driver you must be!  What a fine performance your record was!
Why, there was half a column in the _Morning Post_ about it!"

"It was not any more difficult, or more dangerous, than some of the long
quick runs I've made on the Continent.  From Rome up to Berlin, for
instance, or from Warsaw to Ostend, I'm racing again at Brooklands next
week."

"And may I come and see you?" she asked.  "Do let me.  I will, of
course, keep your secret, and not tell a soul."

He hesitated.

"You see nobody knows but yourself and Garrett, my chauffeur--not even
Clayton.  He's a good fellow, but parsons," he laughed, "are bad hands
at keeping secrets.  Too much tea and gossip spoils them, I suppose."

"But I'll swear to remain secret.  Only let me know the day and hour,
and I'll go south and see you.  I should love to see a motor-race.  I've
never seen one in my life."

So at last, with seeming reluctance, his Highness, having taken the
flattered widow into his confidence, promised on condition that she said
nothing to anybody, she should know the day and hour when to be at
Brooklands.

As the warm summer days slipped by, it became more and more apparent to
the Parson that his friend, the widow, had become entirely fascinated by
the lighthearted easy-going prince.  She, on her part, recognised how,
because of her intimate acquaintance with his Highness, and the fact
that he honoured her table with his presence sometimes at dinner, every
one in the hotel courted her friendship in the hope that they might be
introduced to the cousin of the Kaiser.

Prince and Parson were, truth to tell, playing a very big bluff.  Max
had taken up his quarters at the Spa Hydro, and though meeting his two
accomplices frequently in the streets, passed them by as strangers.

Now and then the Parson went up to smoke with the Prince after the
wealthy widow had retired, and on such occasions the conversation was of
such a character that, if she had overheard it, she would have been
considerably surprised.

One evening, when they were together, the valet, Charles, entered,
closing the door carefully after him.

"Well," asked his master, "what's the news?"

"I've just left Max down in the town," replied the clean-shaven servant.
"He got back from Milnthorpe Hall this morning.  He went there as an
electrical engineer, sent by Cameron Brothers, of London, at the old
woman's request, and examined the whole place with a view to a lighting
installation.  He reports that, beyond a few good paintings--mostly
family portraits of the original owners--and a little _bric-a-brac_,
there's nothing worth having.  The old woman keeps her jewels in the
bank at York, as well as greater part of the plate.  What's in general
use is all electro.  Besides, there are burglar-alarms all over the
place."

"Then the old woman's a four-flush!" declared the Parson tossing away
his cigarette angrily.  "I thought she'd got some good stuff there.
That was my impression from the outside."

"Afraid of thieves, evidently," remarked the Prince.  "She's a lone
woman, and according to what you say, the only men in the house are the
Italian butler, and a young footman."

"If there's nothing there, what's the use troubling over her further?"

His Highness puffed thoughtfully at his "Petroff."  He was reflecting
deeply, bitterly repenting that he had been such a fool as to tell her
the truth regarding his motor-racing _nomade-guerre_.  He could not
afford to allow her to become his enemy.  To abandon her at once would
surely be a most injudicious action.

"At present let's postpone our decision, Tommy," he exclaimed at last.
"There may be a way to success yet.  You, Charles, see Max to-morrow,
and tell him to go to London and lie low there.  I'll wire him when I
want him.  You have some money.  Give him a tenner."

And the man addressed soon afterwards withdrew.

The events of the next two days showed plainly that the original plans
formulated by the Rev Thomas Clayton had been abandoned.

The widow, with some trepidation, invited the Prince and his clerical
friend to be her guests at Milnthorpe, but they made excuses, much to
her chagrin.  The exemplary vicar was compelled to return to his
Bayswater parish, while the Prince was also recalled to London to race
at Brooklands, making the journey, of course, on the car.

Thus Mrs Edmondson found herself left alone in the "Majestic," with her
fellow guests full of wonder at what had really occurred.

The widow, however, had been buoyed up by a few whispered words of the
Prince at the moment of his departure.

"Preserve my secret as you promised, Mrs Edmondson, and come to London
one day next week.  You always go to the Langham--you say.  I'll call on
you there next Friday.  _Au revoir_!"

And he lifted his cap, shook her hand, and mounted at the wheel of the
big mustard- "racer."

On the day appointed he called at the Langham and found her installed in
one of the best suites, prepared to receive him.

He told her that, on the morrow at noon, he was to race at Brooklands
against Carlier, the well-known Frenchman, both cars being of the same
horse-power.  The distance was one hundred miles.

She was delighted, and promised to observe every secrecy, and come down
to witness the struggle.  He remained to tea, chatting with her
pleasantly.  When he rose and bade her adieu, she sat alone for a long
time thinking.

Was she dreaming?  Or was it really a fact that he, Prince Albert of
Hesse-Holstein, had, for a few moments, held her hand tenderly?  The
difference of their ages was not so much, she argued--about twelve
years.  She was twelve years older.  What did that matter, after all?

If she, plain Mrs Edmondson, of Milnthorpe, became Princess Albert of
Hesse-Holstein!  Phew!  The very thought of it took her breath away.

She was a clever scheming woman, and had always been, ever since her
school-girl days.  She flattered herself that she could read the
innermost secrets of a man's heart.

Yes.  She was now convinced.  This man, who had reposed confidence in
her and told her of his dual personality, was actually in love with her.
If he did not marry her, it certainly should not be her fault.

With that decision she called Marie, her French maid, and passed into
her room to dress for dinner with her sister-in-law and her husband--a
barrister--with the theatre and Savoy to follow.

Next day at noon she was down at Brooklands, where a number of motor
enthusiasts and men "in the trade" had assembled.  She saw a tall, slim
figure in grey overalls and an ugly helmet-shaped cap with dark glasses
in the eye-holes, mount upon a long grey car, while a mechanic in blue
cotton and a short jacket buttoned tightly, gave a last look round to
see that all was working properly.  The man mounted the step, the signal
was given by the starters, and the two cars, pitted against each other,
both grey, with huge numbers painted on the front of their bonnets, came
past her like a flash, while the mechanics swung themselves half out, in
order to balance the cars as they went round the bend.

After the first two or three laps the pace became terrific, and as the
widow sat watching, she saw the Prince _incognito_, his head bent to the
wind, a slim, crouched figure at the wheel driving the long car at a
pace which no express train could travel.

At first he slowly forged ahead, but presently, after twenty minutes,
the Frenchman gradually crept up, inch by inch.  It was the test of the
two cars--a comparatively new English make against a French firm.

Dick Drummond had many friends on the course.  He was popular
everywhere, and at regular intervals as he passed the stand where the
widow was seated, a crowd of young, smart, clean-shaven men shouted to
his encouragement.

Each time, with slight dust flying behind, he went round the bend,
Garrett, in his dirty blue clothes, swung himself out to balance the
car, while to the Prince himself all has become a blur.  Travelling at
that terrific pace, the slightest swerve would mean a terrible accident,
therefore, he had no eyes save for the track before him.  Garrett was
busy every moment with the lubrication, and at the same time both feared
tyre-troubles, the bugbear of the racing motorist.  Such speed sets up
tremendous friction and consequent heat, therefore tyre-bursts are
likely, and if a tyre does "go off" while a car is travelling at that
pace, the consequences may be very serious.

Many a bad accident had occurred on that track, and more than one good
man had lost his life.  Yet the Prince, sportsman that he was, knowing
that the widow's eyes were upon him, set his teeth hard and drove until
once again he gradually drew away from his opponent, the renowned
Carlier.

There were present representatives of the daily and the motor press.
The race would be chronicled everywhere on the morrow.  If the Frenchman
won, it would be an advertisement worth many thousands of pounds to the
firm for whom he was driving.

To-day every maker of motor-cars vies with his competitors, and strives
strenuously to obtain the greatest advertisement.  Like so many other
things about us, alas! it is not the quality of the car, or of the
materials used, but a car's excellence seems to be judged by its
popularity.  And that popularity is a mere matter of advertisement.

The best car ever turned out by the hand of man would never be looked at
if not advertised and "boomed."

The French driver, a man who had won a dozen races, including the
Circuit of the Ardennes, and the Florio Cup, was trying to get an
advertisement for the particular company for whom he was the
professional racer, while Dick Drummond was merely trying his English
car against the Paris-built variety.

The whirr-r was constant, now approaching and now receding, as the two
cars went round and round the track with monotonous regularity.
Experts, men interested in various makes, stood leaning over the rails
making comment.

It was agreed on every hand that Drummond was a marvel of cool
level-headedness.  His driving was magnificent, and yet he had
apparently nothing to gain, even if he won the race.  He was not
financially interested, as far as was known, in the make of car he
drove.  He was merely a man of means, who had taken up motor-car racing
as a hobby.

The Frenchman drove well, and the race, after the first three-quarters
of an hour, was a keenly contested one.  First Drummond would lead, and
then Carlier.  Once Drummond spurted and got half a lap ahead, then with
the Frenchman putting on speed, he fell behind again till they were once
more neck and neck.

Time after time they shot past the widow, who had eyes only for her
champion.  Her blue sunshade was up, and as she stood there alone she
hoped against hope that the Prince--the man who had told her his
secret--would prove the victor.

When he was in front, loud shouts rent the air from the men interested
in the make of car he was driving, while, on the other hand, if the
Frenchman gained the vantage the applause from his partisans was
vociferous.

Over all was a cloud of light dust, while the wind created by the cars
as they rushed past fanned the cheeks of the woman watching her champion
with such deep interest.

A group of men near her were discussing him.

"Drummond is a magnificent driver," one remarked in admiration.  "Look
at him coming up now.  Cagno never drove like that, even in his very
best race."

"I wonder what interest he has in the Company?  He surely wouldn't race
for the mere excitement," remarked another.

"Interest!" cried a third man--and, truth to tell, he was Max
Mason--"Why he has the option to buy up the whole of the concern, lock,
stock, and barrel.  I heard so yesterday.  The company gave it to him a
fortnight ago.  Lawrence, the secretary, told me so.  Why, by Jove! if
he wins, the fortune of that make of car is secured.  I suppose he has
capital behind him, and will buy up the whole concern.  I only wish I
were in it.  A tenth share would be a fortune."

"You're right," remarked the first man.  "Dick Drummond is a shrewd
chap.  If he wins he'll make a pot of money on the deal--you see.  It'll
be the biggest advertisement that a car has ever had in all the whole
annals of motoring."

Mrs Edmondson listened to all this in silence.  She quite understood.
The Prince, in his character of Dick Drummond, had entered into the
affair with a view to a big financial deal--the purchase of the
important company who were responsible for the car he was driving.

The car in question, be it said, was the actual mustard-<DW52> one in
which she had careered about the West Riding, although she did not
recognise it in its garb of dirty slate-grey.

She found it quite fascinating, standing there watching those two cars
with their powerful roaring engines striving for the mastery, as mile
after mile was covered at that frightful break-neck speed.  Her heart
was with the man bent over his wheel, whom every one believed to be a
commoner, and whom she alone knew to be a prince.

And he, the cousin of the Kaiser, had actually squeezed her hand!

As the end of the race approached the excitement increased.  The
onlookers grouped themselves in little knots, watching critically for
any sign of weakness in one or the other.  But there was none.  Carlier
was as dogged as his opponent, and kept steadily on until at the
eightieth mile he gradually overhauled the Englishman.

There were still twenty miles to cover.  But Dick Drummond was behind,
quite an eighth of a lap.  Carlier had apparently been husbanding all
his strength and power.  The car he was driving was certainly a splendid
one, and was behaving magnificently.  Would it beat the English make?

As the last few laps were negotiated at a frightful speed the knots of
onlookers became more and more enthusiastic.  Some cheered Dick until
they were hoarse, while others, with an interest in the car Carlier was
driving, cried "Bravo!  Bravo!"

The blood ran quickly in the widow's veins.  Ninety-five miles had been
covered, and still Drummond was behind more than half a lap.  She
watched his crouching figure, with head set forward, his position never
altering, his chin upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the track before
him.  Garrett seemed ever at work, touching this and that at the order
of his master, whose face was wholly protected from the cutting wind by
the ugly mask, save mouth and chin.

As the board showed ninety-seven miles he came at a fearful pace past
the spot where Mrs Edmondson had again risen from her seat in her
excitement.  He was spurting, and so valiantly did he struggle, getting
every ounce out of the hundred horse-power of his car, that he slowly,
very slowly, crept towards the flying Frenchman.

"Keep on, Drummond!" shrieked the men, taking off their caps and waving
them.  "Don't be beaten, old man!"

But he could not hear them above the terrible roar of his exhaust.  No
express train ever designed had run so quickly as he was now travelling.
Official timekeepers were standing, chronometers in hand, calmly
watching, and judges were making ready to declare the winner.

Every spectator stood breathless.  It was really marvellous that one
hundred miles could have been covered in that brief space of time while
they had been watching.

Again, and yet again, the two cars flashed by, yet still Dick lagged
behind.

Suddenly, however, they came round for the last lap, and as they passed
the watchful widow, the Englishman like a shot from a gun, passed his
opponent and won by twenty yards.

When he pulled up, after having run again round the course to slacken
speed, he almost fell into the arms of the crowd of men who came up to
congratulate him.

Mrs Edmondson had left her post of vantage and stood near by.  She
overheard one of them--it was Mason--say:

"By Jove, Dick!  This is a wonderful run.  You've broken the five, ten,
and hundred mile records!  The fortune of your car is made?"

Then the victor turned to his opponent and shook his hand, saying in
French:

"Thank you, my dear Carlier, for a very excellent race."

The widow, after a brief chat, returned to town by rail, while Garrett
drove his master back to Dover Street.

That night his Highness dined with the widow at the Langham, and she
bestowed upon him fulsome praise regarding his prowess.

"What make of car is yours?" she asked while they were lingering over
their dessert in the widow's private sitting-room.

"It's the St Christopher," he answered.

"St Christopher!" she echoed.  "What a funny name to give a car!"

"It may appear so at first sight, but St Christopher has been taken by
motorists on the Continent as their patron saint--the saint who for ages
has guarded the believer against the perils of the way.  So it's really
appropriate, after all."

"I heard them say that you've made the fortune of the car by your
success to-day," she remarked.

"Yes," he answered carelessly.  "Anybody who cared to put in a few
thousands now would receive a magnificent return for their money--
twenty-five per cent, within a year."

"You think so?" she asked interestedly.  "Think, Mrs Edmondson?" he
echoed.  "I'm sure of it!  Why, the St Christopher now holds the
world's record, and you know what that means.  The makers will begin to
receive far more orders than they can ever execute.  Look at the Napier,
the Itala, the Fiat, and others.  The same thing has happened.  The St
Christopher, however, is in the hands of two men only, and they,
unfortunately, lack capital."

"You should help them, if it's such a good thing."

"I'm doing so.  Now I've won the race I shall put in fifteen thousand--
perhaps twenty.  They are seeing me to-morrow.  As a matter of fact," he
added, lowering his tone, "I mean to hold controlling interest in the
concern.  It's far too good a thing to miss."

The fat widow, with her black bodice cut low, and the circle of diamonds
sparkling upon her red neck, sipped her wine slowly, but said nothing.

His Highness did not refer to this matter again.  He was a past-master
of craft and cunning.

Later on, the Rev Thomas Clayton was announced, and the trio spent
quite a pleasant evening, which concluded by the lady inviting them both
to Milnthorpe the following week.

At first the Prince again hesitated.  The widow sat in breathless
expectancy.  At all hazards she must get his Highness to visit her.  It
would be known all over the county.  She would pay a guinea each to the
fashionable papers to announce the fact, for it would be worth so very
much to her in the county.

"I fear, Mrs Edmondson, that I must go to Berlin next week," replied
the Prince.  "I'm sure it's very good of you, but the Emperor has
summoned me regarding some affairs of my brother Karl."

"Oh! why can't you postpone your visit, and come and see me first?" she
urged in her most persuasive style.  "Mr Clayton, do urge the Prince to
come to me," she added.

"You can surely go to Germany a week later, Prince," exclaimed the
cleric.  "Where's the Kaiser just now?"

"At Kiel, yachting."

"Then he may not be in Berlin next week?"

"He has appointed to meet me at Potsdam.  His Majesty never breaks an
engagement."

"Then you will break yours, Prince, and go with me to Milnthorpe,"
declared the Parson.

"Yes," cried Mrs Edmondson; "and we will have no further excuses, will
we, Mr Clayton?"

So his Highness was forced to accept, and next day the wily widow
returned to Yorkshire to make preparations for the visit which was to
shed such social lustre upon her house.

THREE.

The Prince and the Parson held several long interviews in the two days
that followed, and it was apparent from one meeting which took place,
and at which both Mason and Garrett were present, that some clever
manoeuvre was intended.  The quartette held solemn councils in the
Prince's chambers, and there was much discussion, and considerable
laughter.

The latter, it appeared, was in consequence of Max's recollection of the
wonderful record of his Highness at Brooklands.

On the day appointed both Prince and parson, attended by the faithful
Charles, left King's Cross by train for Whitby, Garrett having started
alone on the "forty," with orders to travel by way of Doncaster and
York, and arrive at Milnthorpe by noon next day.

The fine old place was, the Prince found, quite a comfortable residence.
The widow did the honours gracefully, welcoming her guests warmly.

When the two friends found themselves alone in the Prince's room, his
Highness whispered to the exemplary vicar:

"I don't like the look of that Italian butler, Tommy.  Do you know I've
a very strange fancy?"

"Of what?"

"That I've met that fellow before, somewhere or other."

"I sincerely hope not," was the clergyman's response.

"Where I've met him I can't remember.  By Jove!  It'll be awkward for us
if he recollects me."

"Then we'll have to watch him.  I wonder if--"

And the Parson crossed noiselessly to the bedroom door and opened it
suddenly.

As he did so there was the distinct sound of some one scuffling round
the corner in the corridor.  Both men detected it.

There had been an eavesdropper!  They were suspected!

At dinner that night the pair cast furtive glances at the thin,
clean-shaven face of the middle-aged Italian butler, whose head was
prematurely bald, but whose manners as a servant were perfect.  Ferrini
was the name by which his mistress addressed him, and it was apparent
that he was very devoted to her.  The young footman was English--a
Cockney, by his twang.

In the old panelled room, with its long family portraits and its old
carved buffet laden with well-kept silver--or rather electro-plate, as
the pair already knew--a well-cooked dinner was served amid flowers and
cunningly-concealed lights.  The table was a round one, and the only
other guest was a tall, fair-haired young girl, a Miss Maud Mortimer,
the daughter of a neighbouring squire.  She was a loosely built,
slobbering miss, with a face like a wax doll, and a slight impediment in
her speech.

At first she seemed shy in the presence of the Kaiser's cousin, but
presently, when her awkwardness wore off, she grew quite merry.

To the two visitors the meal was a perfect success.  Those dark watchful
eyes of the Italian, however, marred their pleasure considerably.  Even
the Parson was now convinced that the man knew something.

What was it?  Where had the fellow met the Prince before?  Was it under
suspicious circumstances--or otherwise?

Next day Garrett arrived with the car, while to the White House Hotel at
Whitby came a quietly dressed and eminently respectable golfer, who gave
his name as Harvey, but with whom we are already familiar under the name
of Mason.

The afternoon was a hot, breathless one, but towards five o'clock the
Prince invited his hostess to go for a run on the "forty"--repainted,
since its recent return from the Continent, dark blue with a coronet and
cipher upon its panels.

Garrett who had had a look round the widow's "sixty" Mercedes, in
confidence told his master that it was all in order, and that the
chauffeur was an experienced man.

With the widow and her two guests seated together behind, Garrett drove
the car next day along the pretty road by Pickering down to Malton,
returning by way of Castle Howard.  The pace they travelled was a fast
one, and the widow, turning to his Highness, said:

"Really, Prince, to motor with you is quite a new experience.  My man
would never dare to go at such a rate as this for fear of police-traps."

"I'm pretty lucky in escaping them," responded the good-looking
adventurer, glancing meaningly at the man in black clerical overcoat and
cap.

"The Prince once ran from Boulogne to Nice in twenty-eight hours on his
St Christopher," remarked the Rev Thomas.  "And in winter, too."

"Marvellous!" declared the widow, adjusting her pale-blue motor-veil,
new for the occasion.  "There's no doubt a great future before that
car--especially after the record at Brooklands."

"Rather!" exclaimed the rubicund vicar.  "I'm only a poor parson, but if
I had a little capital I should certainly put it in.  I have inside
knowledge, as they say in the City, I believe, Mrs Edmondson," he
laughed.

"From the Prince?"

"Of course.  He intends having the largest interest in the concern.
They've had eight orders for racers in the last six days.  A record at
Brooklands means a fortune to a manufacturer."

His Highness was silent, while the self-satisfied widow discussed the
future of the eight-cylinder St Christopher.

Returning to the Hall, Ferrini came forth bowing to his mistress, and
casting a distinctly suspicious glance at the two visitors.  Both men
noticed it, and were not a little apprehensive.  They had played some
clever games, but knew not from one moment to the other when some
witness might not point a finger at them in open denunciation.

While the Prince was dressing for dinner Charles said:

"That butler fellow is far too inquisitive for my liking.  I found him
in here an hour ago, and I'm positive he had been trying to unlock your
crocodile suit-case.  He made an excuse that he had come to see whether
you had a siphon of soda.  But I actually caught him bending over your
bag."

The Prince remained grave and silent.

"Where have we met that fellow before?  I can't remember."

"Neither can I.  His face is somehow familiar.  I'm sure we've seen him
somewhere!"

"That's what the Parson says.  Write to Max at Whitby, and tell him to
come over on some pretext or other and get a glance at the man.  Post
the letter yourself to-night."

"Perhaps the fellow is afraid of his plate," the valet exclaimed in an
undertone, laughing.

"He needn't be.  It's all `B' electro--not worth taking away in a
dung-cart.  The only thing I've seen is the old woman's necklet, and
that she keeps in her room, I fancy.  If the sparklers are real they're
worth a couple of thousand to the Dutchman."

"They are certainly real.  She's got them out of the bank in your
honour.  Her maid told me so to-day.  And she means, I believe, to give
a big dinner-party for some of the county people to meet you."

"Are you sure of this?" asked his master quickly.

"The cook told the footman, who told me.  The housekeeper to-day ordered
a lot of things from London, and to-morrow the invitations are to be
sent out."

"Are people coming here to dine and sleep?"

"Yes.  Eight bedrooms are to be prepared."

"Then keep an eye on that confounded Italian.  Send that letter to Max,
and tell him to reply to you in cipher.  His letter might fall into
somebody else's hands.  Max might also inquire into what the police
arrangements are about here--where the village constable lives, and
where is the nearest police-station."

"Couldn't you send me in to Whitby, and I'd give him all instructions,
and tell him the state of affairs?"

"Yes.  Go in the morning.  Garrett will take you in on the car.  Say
you're going to buy me a book I want."

And with that his Highness finished tying his cravat with care, and
descended into the pretty drawing-room, where the widow, lounging
picturesquely beneath the yellow-shaded lamp, awaited him.

That evening the Parson, who complained of headache on account of the
sun during a walk in the morning, retired to his room early, and until
past eleven the Prince sat alone with his fat and flattered hostess.

As she lolled back in the big silk-covered easy-chair, slowly fanning
herself and trying to look her best, he, calm, calculating person that
he was, had his eyes fixed upon her sparkling necklet, wondering how
much the old Jew in Amsterdam would give for it.

"What a splendid ornament!" he remarked, as though he had noticed it for
the first time.

"Do you like it?" she asked with a smile.  "It belonged to my husband's
family."

"Beautiful!" remarked his Highness, bending closer to examine it, for he
had the eye of a connoisseur, and saw that it was probably French work
of the eighteenth century.

"Many people have admired it," she went on.  "My husband was very fond
of jewellery, and gave me quite a quantity.  I never keep it here,
however, for a year ago an attempt was made to break into the place."

"So you keep them in a safe deposit?" he exclaimed; "and quite right,
too.  Diamonds are always a sore temptation to burglars."

"I'm asking a few people to dinner next Wednesday, and am sending to the
bank in York for some of my ornaments," remarked the widow.  "I hope
they'll be safe here.  Since the attempt by thieves, I confess I've been
awfully nervous."

"Oh, they'll be safe enough," declared the audacious adventurer, taking
a fresh Russian cigarette from his case.

"I hope so.  I have invited a few people--the best in the county--to
meet your Highness.  I hope you won't object."

"Not at all," he replied affably.  "Only, as you know, I much prefer to
remain _incognito_."

"You're one of the most modest men I've ever met," she declared, in a
soft voice, intended to be seductive.

"I find life as a commoner much more agreeable than as a prince," he
responded.  "In _incognito_, I always enjoy freedom of speech and
freedom of action, which, as a royalty, it is impossible to obtain."

The widow's mind was ever active.  She was straining her utmost to
fascinate her guest.  The difference in their ages was really not so
very great.  Her secret hope was that she could induce him to make a
declaration of love.  Fancy her, plain Mrs Edmondson, ridiculed by the
county and only tolerated by a certain section of it, suddenly becoming
a princess!

Milnthorpe was a beautiful old place, but to her it was but a sepulchre.
She hated it because, while in residence there, she was buried alive.
She preferred Monte Carlo, Paris, or even Cairo.

"Then the dinner-party will be a very smart one?" he remarked for want
of something better to say.  "And my hostess herself will surely be the
smartest of them all," he added with a bow and an intent to flatter.

"Ah!  I fear not," replied the widow with a slight sigh.  "I dare say
the diamonds which poor Tubby gave me are as good as any worn by the
other women, but as for smartness--well, Prince, a woman's mirror does
not lie," and she sighed again.  "Youth is but fleeting, and a woman's
life is, alas! a long old age."

"Oh, come!" he laughed, lounging back in his chair.  "You haven't yet
arrived at the regretful age.  Life is surely still full of youth for
you!"

She was much gratified at that little speech of his, and showed it.

He continued to flatter her, and with that cunning innate within him he
slowly drew from her the fact that she would not be averse to a second
marriage.  He was fooling her, yet with such cleverness that she, shrewd
woman that she was, never dreamed that he was laughing at her in his
sleeve.

So earnest, so sensible, so perfectly frank and straightforward was he,
that when after half an hour's _tete-a-tete_ she found him holding her
hand and asking her to become Princess, she became utterly bewildered.
What she replied she hardly knew, until suddenly, with an old-fashioned
courtliness, he raised her fat, bejewelled hand gallantly to his lips
and said:

"Very well.  Let it be so, Mrs Edmondson.  We are kindred spirits, and
our souls have affinity.  You shall be my princess."

"And then the old crow started blubbering," as he forcibly described the
scene afterwards to the Parson.

For a few moments he held her in his embrace, fearful every moment that
the ferret-eyed Italian should enter.  Indeed, his every movement seemed
to be watched suspiciously by that grave, silent servant.

They mutually promised, for the present, to keep their secret.  He
kissed her upon the lips, which, as he declared to the Parson, were
"sticky with some confounded face-cream or other."  Then Ferrini
suddenly appeared, and his mistress dismissed him for the night.  The
Prince, however, knew that he would not retire, but lurk somewhere in
the corridor outside.

He stood before the old Jacobean fireplace, with its high overmantel of
carved stone and emblazoned arms, a handsome man who would prove
attractive to any woman.  Was it therefore any wonder that the ambitious
widow of the shipbuilder should have angled after him?

He had entirely eclipsed the Parson.

First their conversation was all of affection; then it turned upon
something akin, money.  Upon the latter point the Prince was utter
careless.  He had sufficient, he declared.  But the widow was persistent
in telling him the state of her own finances.  Besides the estate of
Milnthorpe, which produced quite a comfortable income, she enjoyed half
the revenue from the great firm her husband had founded, and at that
moment, besides other securities, she had a matter of seventy thousand
pounds lying idle at her bank, over which she had complete control.

She expected this would interest him, but, on the contrary, he merely
lit a fresh cigarette, and having done so, said:

"My dear Mrs Edmondson, this marriage of ours is not for monetary
interest.  My own estates are more than sufficient for me.  I do not
desire to touch one single penny of your money.  I wish you to enjoy
your separate estate, and remain just as independent as you are to-day."

And so they chatted on until the chimes of the stable clock warned them
it was two in the morning.  Then having given him a slobbery good-night
kiss, they separated.

Before his Highness turned in, he took from his steel despatch-box a
small black-covered book, and with its aid he constructed two cipher
telegrams, which he put aside to be despatched by Charles from the
Whitby post office in the morning.

The calm, warm summer days went slowly by.  Each afternoon the widow--
now perfectly satisfied with herself--accompanied her two guests on runs
on the Prince's "forty"--one day to Scarborough, the next over the
Cleveland Hills to Guisborough, to Helmsley on to the ruins of Rievaulx,
and to other places.

One afternoon the Parson made an excuse to remain at home, and the widow
took the Prince in to York in her own Mercedes.  Arrived there, they
took tea in the coffee-room of the Station Hotel, then, calling at a
solicitor's office in Coney Street, appended their joint names to a
document which, at the widow's instigation, had already been prepared.

A quarter of an hour later they pulled up before the West Riding Bank in
Stonegate, and though the offices were already closed, a clerk on duty
handed to the widow a box about eighteen inches square, tied with
string, and sealed with four imposing red seals.  For this she scribbled
her name to a receipt, and placing it in the car between them, drove
back by way of Malton, Pickering, and Levisham.

"This is the first time I've had my tiara out, my dear Albert, since the
burglars tried to get in," she remarked when they had gone some
distance, and the Mercedes was tearing along that level open stretch
towards Malton.

"Well, of course, be careful," answered her companion.  Then after a
pause he lowered his voice so the chauffeur could not overhear, and
said: "I wonder, Gertrude, if you'll permit me to make a remark--without
any offence?"

"Why, certainly.  What is it?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I don't half like the look of that foreign
servant of yours.  He's not straight.  I'm sure of it by the look in his
eyes."

"How curious!  Do you know that the same thought has occurred to me
these last few days," she said.  "And yet he's such a trusty servant.
He's been with me nearly two years."

"Don't trust him further, Gertrude, that's my advice," said his Highness
pointedly.  "I'm suspicious of the fellow--distinctly suspicious.  Do
you know much of him?"

"Nothing, except that he's a most exemplary servant."

"Where was he before he entered your service?"

"With Lady Llangoven, in Hertford Street.  She gave him a most excellent
character."

"Well, take my warning," he said.  "I'm sure there's something underhand
about him."

"You quite alarm me," declared the widow.  "Especially as I have these,"
and she indicated the sealed parcel at her side.

"Oh, don't be alarmed.  While I'm at Milnthorpe I'll keep my eyes upon
the fellow, never fear.  I suppose you have a safe in which to keep your
jewels?"

"Yes.  But some of the plate is kept there, and he often has the key."

His Highness grunted suspiciously, thereby increasing the widow's alarm.

"Now you cause me to reflect," she said, "there were several curious
features about this recent attempt of thieves.  The police from York
asked me if I thought that any one in the house could have been in
league with them.  They apparently suspected one or other of the
servants."

"Oh!" exclaimed the Prince.  "And the Italian was at that time in your
service?"

"Yes."

"Then does not that confirm our suspicions?  Is he not a dangerous
person to have in a house so full of valuable objects as Milnthorpe?"

"I certainly agree.  After the dinner-party on Wednesday, I'll give him
notice."

"Rather pay the fellow his month's money, and send him away," her
companion suggested.  Then in the same breath he added: "Of course it is
not for me to interfere with your household arrangements.  I know this
is great presumption.  But my eyes are open, and I have noted that the
man is not all he pretends to be.  Therefore I thought it only my duty
to broach the subject."

"My interests are yours," cooed the widow at his side.  "Most decidedly
Ferrini shall go.  Or else one morning we may wake up and find that
thieves have paid us a second visit."

Then, the chauffeur having put on a "move," their conversation became
interrupted, and the subject was not resumed, for very soon they found
themselves swinging through the lodge-gates of Milnthorpe.

Wednesday night came.  Milnthorpe Hall was aglow with light, the rooms
beautifully decorated by a well-known florist, the dinner cooked by a
_chef_ from London, the music played by a well-known orchestra stationed
on the lawn outside the long, oak-panelled dining-room; and as one guest
after another arrived in carriages and cars they declared that the widow
had certainly eclipsed herself by this entertainment in honour of his
Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein.

Not a word of their approaching marriage was allowed to leak out.  For
the present, it was their own secret.  Any premature announcement might,
he had told her, bring upon him the Kaiser's displeasure.

FOUR.

In the long drawing-room, receiving her guests, stood the widow,
handsome in black and silver, wearing her splendid tiara and necklet of
diamonds, as well as a rope of fine, well-matched pearls, all of which
both the Parson and his Highness duly noted.  She certainly looked a
brilliant figure, while, beside her, stood the Prince himself, with the
miniature crosses of half a dozen of his decorations strung upon a tiny
gold chain across the lappel of his dress-coat.

Several guests had arrived earlier in the day to dine and sleep, while
the remainder, from the immediate neighbourhood, included several
persons of title and social distinction who had accepted the invitation
out of mere curiosity.  Half the guests went because they were to meet a
real live prince, and the other half in order to afterwards poke fun at
the obese tuft-hunter.

The dinner, however, was an unqualified success, the thanks being in a
great measure due to his Highness, who was full of vivacity and
brilliant conversation.  Everybody was charmed with him, while of course
later on, in the corner of the drawing-room, the Bayswater parson sang
his friend's praises in unmeasured terms.

The several unmarried women set their caps pointedly at the hero of the
evening, and at last, when the guests had left and the visitors had
retired, he, with the Parson and two other male visitors, Sir Henry
Hutton, and a certain Lionel Meyer, went to the billiard-room.

It was two o'clock when they went upstairs.  The Bayswater vicar had to
pass the Prince's room, in order to get to his own, but he did not enter
further than the threshold.  Both men looked eagerly across at the
dressing-table, upon which Charles had left two candles burning.

That was a secret sign.  Both men recognised it, and the Prince
instantly raised his finger with a gesture indicative of silence.  Then
he exclaimed aloud: "Well, good-night, Clayton.  We'll go for a run in
the morning," and closed his door noisily, while the Parson went along
to his own room.

The Prince, always an early riser, was up at eight o'clock, and was
already dressed when Charles entered his room.

"Well?" he inquired, as was his habit.

"There's a rare to-do below," exclaimed the valet.  "The whole house has
been ransacked in the night, and a clean sweep made of all the
jewellery.  The old woman is asking to see you at once."

Without ado, his Highness descended, sending Charles along to alarm the
Parson.

In the morning-room he found the widow, with the two male guests and two
ladies, assembled in excited conclave.  As he entered, his hostess
rushed towards him, saying:

"Oh, Prince!  A most terrible thing has happened!  Every scrap of
jewellery, including my tiara and necklet, has been stolen!"

"Stolen!" he gasped, pretending not to have heard the news.

"Yes.  I placed them myself in the safe in the butler's pantry, together
with several cases the maids brought me from my guests.  I locked them
up just after one o'clock and took the key.  Here it is.  It has never
left my possession.  I--"

She was at that moment interrupted by the entrance of the Parson, who,
having heard of the robbery from the servants, began:

"My de-ah Mrs Edmondson.  This is really a most untoward circumstance--
most--"

"Listen," the widow went on excitedly.  "Hear me, and then advise me
what to do.  I took this key,"--and she held it up for their
inspection--"and hid it beneath the corner of the carpet in my room.
This morning, to my amazement, my maid came to say that the safe-door
had been found ajar, and that though the plate had been left, all the
jewellery had disappeared.  Only the empty cases remain!"

"How has the safe been opened?" asked the Prince, standing amazed.

Was it possible that some ingenious adventurer had got ahead of him?  It
certainly seemed so.

"It's been opened by another key, that's evident," replied the widow.

"And where's Ferrini?" inquired his Highness quickly.

"He's missing.  Nobody has seen him this morning," answered the
distressed woman.  "Ah, Prince, you were right--quite right in your
surmise.  I believed in him, but you summed him up very quickly.  I
intended to discharge him to-morrow, but I never dreamed he possessed a
second key."

"He has the jewels, evidently," remarked Sir Henry Hutton, himself a
county magistrate.  "I'll run into Whitby, and inform the police, Mrs
Edmondson.  We have no idea which direction the fellow has taken."

At that moment the door opened, and Garrett, cap in hand, stood on the
threshold.

"Well, what's the matter?" asked his master.

"Please, your Highness, our car's gone.  It's been stolen from the
garage in the night!"

The announcement caused an electrical effect upon the assembly.

"Then this man could also drive a car, as well as wait at table!"
exclaimed Sir Henry.  "Myself, I always distrust foreign servants."

"Ferrini had one or two lessons in driving from my chauffeur, I
believe," remarked the widow, now in a state of utter collapse.

"Never mind, Mrs Edmondson," said his Highness cheerily.  "Allow Sir
Henry and myself to do our best.  The fellow is bound to be caught.
I'll give the police the number of my car, and its description.  And
what's more, we have something very valuable here."  And he drew out his
pocket-book.  "You recollect the suspicions of Ferrini which I
entertained, and which I explained in confidence to you?  Well, my valet
has a pocket camera, and with it three days ago I took a snap-shot of
your exemplary servant.  Here it is!"

"By Jove.  Excellent!" cried Sir Henry.  "This will be of the greatest
assistance to the police."

And so it was arranged that the police of Whitby should be at once
informed.

At breakfast--a hurried, scrappy meal that morning--every one condoled
with the Prince upon the loss of his car.  Surely the whole affair had
been most cleverly contrived by Ferrini, who had got clear away.

Just as the meal had concluded and the Parson had promised to accompany
Sir Henry over to Whitby to see the police, he received a telegram
calling him to his brother, who had just landed in Liverpool from
America, and who wished to see him at the Adelphi Hotel that evening.

To his hostess he explained that he was bound to keep the appointment,
for his brother had come from San Francisco on some important family
affairs, and was returning to New York by the next boat.

Therefore he bade adieu to Mrs Edmondson--"de-ah Mrs Edmondson," he
always called her--and was driven in the dog-cart to Grosmont station,
while a few minutes later, the Prince and Sir Henry set out in the
widow's Mercedes for Whitby.

The pair returned about one o'clock, and at luncheon explained what they
had done.

In the afternoon, the widow met his Highness out in the tent upon the
lawn, and they sat together for some time, he enjoying his eternal
"Petroff."  Indeed, he induced her to smoke one, in order to soothe her
nerves.

"Don't upset yourself too much, my dear Gertrude," he urged, placing his
hand upon hers.  "We shall catch the fellow, never fear.  Do you know,
I've been wondering whether, if I went up to town and saw them at
Scotland Yard, it would not be the wisest course.  I know one of the
superintendents.  I met him when my life was threatened by anarchists,
and the police put me under their protection.  The Whitby police seem
very slow.  Besides, by this time Ferrini is far afield."

"I really think, Albert, that it would be quite a good plan," exclaimed
the widow enthusiastically.  "If you went to Scotland Yard they would,
no doubt, move heaven and earth to find the thief."

"That's just what I think," declared his Highness.  "I'll go by the
six-twenty."

"But you'll return here to-morrow, won't you?" urged the widow.  "The
people I have here will be so disappointed if you don't--and--and as for
myself," she added, her fat face flushing slightly--"well, you know that
I am only happy when you are near me."

"Trust me, Gertrude.  I'll return at once--as soon as ever I've set the
machinery of Scotland Yard in motion.  I have the negative of the photo
I took, and I'll hand it to them."

And so that evening, without much explanation to his fellow guests, he
ran up to town, leaving Charles and most of his baggage behind.

Next day, Mrs Edmondson received a long and reassuring telegram from
him in London.

Two days passed, but nothing further was heard.  Garrett, without a car,
and therefore without occupation, decided to go up to London.  The theft
of the car had utterly puzzled him.  Whatever _coup_ his master and his
friends had intended had evidently been effected by the man Ferrini.
All their clever scheming had been in vain.

They had been forestalled.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

CONCLUSION.

A week later.

The soft summer afterglow flooded the pretty pale-blue upholstered
sitting-room in the new Palast Hotel, overlooking the Alster at Hamburg,
wherein the Prince, the Parson, and the pale-faced Englishman, Mason,
were seated together at their ease.

The Prince had already been there two days, but Clayton was staying over
at the Hamburgerhof, while Mason, who had arrived _via_ Copenhagen only
a couple of hours before, had taken up his quarters at the Kronprinzen,
a smaller establishment in the Jungfernstieg.

The trio had been chatting, and wondering.  Mason had just shown them a
telegram, which apparently caused them some apprehension.

Suddenly, however, a waiter entered with a card for Herr Stoltenberg, as
the Prince was there known.

"Show the gentleman in," he ordered in German.

A moment later a well-dressed gentlemanly-looking young Englishman in
light travelling overcoat and dark-green felt hat entered.  It was the
valet Charles.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, as soon as the door had closed, "I had a narrow
squeak--a confoundedly narrow squeak.  You got my wire from Amersfoort?"
he asked of Mason.

"Yes.  I've just been explaining to the Prince what happened on the
night of the dinner-party," replied the pale-faced man.

"Tell me.  I'm all anxiety to know," urged the valet.  "I left Garrett
in Rosendaal.  He's utterly puzzled."

"I expect he is," Mason responded.  "The fact is that he's just as much
puzzled as the wily Italian himself.  It's a good job I was able to
locate that fellow as one of old Blair-Stewart's servants up at
Glenblair Castle.  You remember--when we met `Le Bravache' on his own
ground," Mason went on.  "Well, I played the part of detective, and
wrote to him secretly, asking him to meet me in Whitby.  He did so, and
to him I confided my suspicions of you all, promising him a police
reward of two hundred pounds if he kept his eye on you, watched, and
informed me of all that was in progress.  Of course I bound him to the
most complete secrecy.  He tumbled into the trap at once.  The Prince
had, of course, previously got wax-impressions of the widow's safe-key,
for she had one day inadvertently given her key to him to go and unlock
a cabinet in the library.  Three times the suspicious butler met me, and
made secret reports on your doings.  He watched you like a cat.  Then,
on the night of the dinner-party, I had an appointment with him at one
o'clock in the morning.  I stole our car, and ran it noiselessly by the
back road through the park to the spot where he was to meet me.  He came
punctually, and got in the car at my side to be driven into Whitby,
where he supposed three detectives were in waiting.  My story was that
we were to pick them up at the hotel, drive back to the Hall, and arrest
the lot of you.  He was delighted with the project, and on joining me
had a nip of whisky from my flask just to keep out the night air.  Ten
minutes later he was _hors de combat_.  I'd doctored the whisky, so,
pulling up, I bound and gagged him, and deposited him in a disused
cow-house on the opposite side of a field on the edge of Roxby High
Moor--a place I'd previously prospected.  Having thus got rid of him, I
turned the car back again to a spot within a mile of Milnthorpe
lodge-gates--previously arranged with the Prince--and there, close by a
stile, I found a biggish packet wrapped hurriedly in brown paper.  Its
feel was sufficient to tell me that it was the boodle.  The Prince and
the Parson had secured it after Ferrini had absented himself, and having
placed it there in readiness for me, had quietly returned to their beds.
With it under the seat I drove south as hard as I could by Driffield
into Hull.  Before I got there I changed the identification plate,
obliterated the coronets on the panels with the enamel I found in
readiness, and leaving the car in a garage, got across to Bergen, in
Norway, and thence by train down to Christiania, Copenhagen, and here."

"Well, you put me into a fine hole, Prince," protested the valet
good-humouredly.  "I waited, expecting to hear something each day.  The
old woman telegraphed frantically to London a dozen times at least, but
got no reply.  She was just about to go up to town herself to see what
had become of you, and I was beginning to feel very uneasy, I confess,
when an astounding thing happened.  The Italian on the morning of the
third day turned up, dirty, dazed, and in a state of terrible
excitement.  I saw him in the hall where he made a long rambling
statement, mostly incoherent.  The old woman and Sir Henry, however,
would hear no explanation, and, calling the village constable, had him
arrested at once.  An hour later they carted him off to Whitby.  Then I
made an excuse, cleared out, and here I am!  But I tell you," he added,
"I had a narrow shave.  He made an allegation that I was in the swindle,
but every one thought he'd either gone mad, or was trying to bluff
them."

"It was unavoidable, my dear Charles.  I couldn't communicate with you,"
the Prince explained.  "Never mind, my boy.  There's a good share coming
to you.  The sparklers are worth at least ten thousand to our old friend
the Jew, and they'll be in his hands and out of their settings by this
time to-morrow.  Besides, the silly old crow who thought she'd got a
mug, and was going to marry me, has put up twenty thousand pounds in
cash to get into the St Christopher car deal.  I got the money out of
my bank safely yesterday, and it's now paid into a new account in the
Dresdener Bank, in the name of Karl Stoltenberg."

"Well, you absolutely misled me," Charles declared.

"Because it was imperative," replied Herr Stoltenberg, as he said he
wished to be known in the immediate future.  "The old crow was a fool
from the very first.  She was too ambitious, and never saw through our
game or how the record at Brooklands was faked entirely for her benefit.
The Parson's first idea was mere vulgar burglary.  If we'd brought it
off we should have found only a lot of worthless electro.  But I saw a
little farther.  She had money, and with a little working would no doubt
part.  She did.  I suppose by this time the poor vain old woman has
given up all idea of becoming Princess Albert of Hesse-Holstein."

"Well, my dear Prince," exclaimed the Parson, "my own idea is that we
should separate and all lie doggo for at least a year, now that we have
so successfully touched the widow's mite."

And this course was at once unanimously agreed.

I happen, as an intimate friend of his audacious Highness, to know his
whereabouts at the present moment, and also the snug and unsuspected
hiding-places of each of his four accomplices.  But to reveal them would
most certainly put my personal friends at New Scotland Yard upon their
track.

As a matter of fact, I am pledged to absolute secrecy.  If I were not,
my old college chum would never have dared to furnish me with the
details of these stirring adventures of a romantic life of daring and
subterfuge--adventures which I have here recounted, and in which perhaps
the most prominent if sadly-deceived character has always been "The Lady
in the Car."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lady in the Car, by William Le Queux

*** 