The Lady in the Car

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” Mercédès, 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.