“What were you doing then with Bannister yesterday, eh?”
Again Mr. Bathurst raised a mildly protesting hand. “Ah! There we do meet on more appropriate terms. I will tell you, Mr. Warburton. I am watching the case on behalf of His Royal Highness Alexis, Crown Prince of Clorania. Does that surprise you? My name is Anthony Bathurst.”
Warburton sprang to his feet—furious with anger. “Then get out of here,” he cried. “As quickly as you know how or——” He stopped irresolutely.
Mr. Bathurst, as has been observed more than once, was always very fit—thank you, and Mr. Warburton was intelligent enough to note the fact. One glance at the lithe and muscular six feet length of body was ample for him in which to arrive at his conclusions.
“I think not,” said Mr. Bathurst, sweetly—as sweetly as he knew how, which is considerably so. “And I’ll tell you why, Mr. Warburton, in case you don’t know.” There was no sweetness in his tone now—rather a grim menace. “Have you ever heard of the Princess Imogena of Natalia?”
“What do you mean?” muttered Warburton.
“I was called into this case, Mr. Warburton, before it assumed the tragic aspect that unhappily it has now.” He took a bundle of letters from his pocket. “Your handwriting, I fancy!” He held one out to Alan Warburton.
The latter’s lower lip dropped as he gazed at the letter sullenly. “There’s no need for you to answer,” said Anthony, “your face betrays you.” Warburton remained obstinately silent. “There’s no fifty thousand pounds for you this journey, my young friend—you may be housed rather as a guest of His Majesty.”
“It’s of no consequence to me now—you won’t frighten me with that.”
“Perhaps not! But nevertheless I’m very curious on one point. What bluff were you calling? You had absolutely nothing at the back of you. What was your game?”