“God help the Dutch public!” muttered my uncle, as the fat little man bustled off with his news to some new-comer. “That’s the Prince’s famous cook, nephew. He has not his equal in England for a filet sauté aux champignons. He manages his master’s money affairs.”
“The cook!” I exclaimed, in bewilderment.
“You look surprised, nephew.”
“I should have thought that some respectable banking firm—”
My uncle inclined his lips to my ear.
“No respectable house would touch them,” he whispered. “Ah, Mellish, is the Prince within?”
“In the private saloon, Sir Charles,” said the gentleman addressed.
“Any one with him?”
“Sheridan and Francis. He said he expected you.”
“Then we shall go through.”