“However, there is no doubt he was there, and there is no doubt that he was a blackguard even if he was a Crown Prince; what you told me quite proves that, though naturally I did not mention any of that to my friend. Even now I can’t say that I’m altogether sorry I shot him; he seems to have deserved it if ever a man did, Crown Prince or no Crown Prince. So I don’t think you need worry yourself on that score, my dear niece,” said Mr. Priestley kindly.
“Th-thank you,” faltered his dear niece, who certainly was not worrying herself on that score.
There was a little pause while Mr. Priestley extracted his cigarette-case, courteously asked permission to smoke, and received a feeble affirmative.
“As for the gang,” continued Mr. Priestley, when his cigarette was alight, “they’re quite easily explained. They were a body of malcontents (Communists, I think) from Bosnogovina who have repeatedly expressed their determination to exterminate the dynasty altogether and so prevent Bosnogovina from reverting to a monarchy even should it feel inclined. My friend thinks that quite definitely established, though unfortunately no trace of the ruffians has been found. And in official circles it is taken for granted (fortunately for us!) that it was members of this gang who shot the Crown Prince. Of course they have the constable’s descriptions of you and me, but they think we are members of the Communist gang, if you understand.”
“Do they?” said Laura mechanically.
“Yes, I’m glad indeed to say they do. On the other hand (and this is where we are not so fortunate) the most urgent search is being prosecuted by the Secret Service, whose resources I understand to be simply unlimited, to discover our whereabouts. I realised when I heard this how extremely rash I had been in going to see my friend and actually in his official quarters. It was a terrible risk.” Mr. Priestley expelled a cloud of smoke with the modest demeanour of one who knows he is a brave and reckless fellow and has no need to brag about it.
“Good Heavens!” was all Laura could think of to say, but she said it with a good deal of feeling.
Mr. Priestley paused for a few moments to admire himself. He had told a good story, and he thought he had told it well. As far as he could remember, he had included every single point that had been impressed upon him. He glanced at his companion almost maliciously, if that is not too strong a word even to hint at in connection with Mr. Priestley. What he saw in that young woman’s countenance gave him a good deal of wicked pleasure. He knew it was wicked pleasure, but he just didn’t care. Mr. Priestley had developed a good deal in the last forty-eight hours.
He considered his next words with the care of an artist.
“Of course,” he said slowly, “you can see how this affects us. Our precautions must be intensified beyond measure.”