“Exactly. Prince Michael is dead. Are you prepared to offer the same loan on the same terms to his cousin Nicholas?”
“Can you produce him? I thought he was killed in the Congo?”
“He was killed all right. I killed him. Oh, no, I’m not a murderer. When I say I killed him, I mean that I spread the report of his death. I promised you a Prince, Mr. Isaacstein. Will I do?”
“You?”
“Yes, I’m the man. Nicholas Sergius Alexander Ferdinand Obolovitch. Rather long for the kind of life I proposed to live, so I emerged from the Congo as plain Anthony Cade.”
Little Captain Andrassy sprang up.
“But this is incredible—incredible,” he spluttered. “Have a care, sir, what you say.”
“I can give you plenty of proofs,” said Anthony quietly. “I think I shall be able to convince the Baron here.”
The Baron lifted his hand.
“Your proofs I will examine, yes. But of them for me there is no need. Your word alone sufficient for me is. Besides, your English mother you much resemble. All along have I said: ‘This young man on one side or the other most highly born is’.”