“You are aware, I know,” he said quietly, “that I am not a professional inquiry agent. Your letter this morning told me as much. At the same time I shall be pleased to hear your story, and if at all possible, to help you in the matter. Consider me at your service.”
His companion inclined his head—then raised it again and looked Bathurst directly in the eyes. “It may interest you to know, Mr. Bathurst,” he commenced, “that you have been addressing The Crown Prince of Clorania.”
Anthony accepted the intimation with becoming reserve. “I am honoured,” he murmured. His Royal Highness went on quickly:
“I am not sure whether you are a close student of European history. That fact, perhaps, is somewhat beside the point. Let it be sufficient for the moment for me to tell you that in December next I am marrying the Princess Imogena of Natalia. This union, it is confidently believed by all who are competent to judge, will bind Clorania and Natalia, in an irrevocable alliance. It is also, I may inform you, a love-match.” He coughed, looked at his hearer, then continued—without stopping to hear any comments that were tolerably certain in his own opinion to be superfluous and beside the point. “The Princess is as charming as she is beautiful and I may tell you that she is considered by many excellent judges to be one of the six most beautiful girls in Europe. In other words she is worthy of me, and I am bound to regard myself as very fortunate to have won the hand of so fair a bride. There are many also who think that the Princess herself has been equally fortunate—and I, for one—ahem—will not contest that opinion.”
Once again he cast a shrewdly-quick glance in Anthony’s direction only to discover thereby that his story was being received with impassive attention. When he chose, Mr. Bathurst’s face could be supremely enigmatic. He chose at this moment! The result was that the Crown Prince seemed less sure of himself than ever.
“What I have to say now is not at all easy for me. In fact I am quite prepared to admit that I find it extremely difficult. The Reigning House of Natalia, I need hardly tell you, would not tolerate for one moment a marriage for their only daughter, with a Prince whose ‘shield was not stainless’—like the Tunstall of your wonderful literature. Her husband must be ‘sans peur et sans reproche’ and his blood of the very purest. They favoured my suit from the first—fulfilling as I did these vitally necessary obligations. Judge of my annoyance then, Mr. Bathurst to find myself the recipient of these most insufferable letters, which I will confess, it was not my original intention to show you.” He took from his breast-pocket a packet of letters. “There are five of them in all and they date from nine weeks ago until now—the latest you will observe according to the post-mark on the envelope is dated June 22nd—a week ago. Perhaps you would read this last one, first of all.”
Anthony extended his hand for the letter in question. “Westhampton post-mark,” he observed—scrutinising the somewhat blurred stamp on the envelope. His visitor nodded in agreement. Anthony took out the letter itself. It was undated and bore no address. He read it. The handwriting spoke of education and culture. “The disinclination of His Royal Highness to reply to the four letters that he has already received is neither to his credit nor will it be to his advantage. At this period of negotiations he should realise that the writer is not penning these communications simply ‘pour passer le temps’. Unless the £50,000 already demanded is forthcoming by the 9th of next month the writer will be reluctantly compelled to add yet another Royal personage to his circle of epistolary acquaintance—the Princess Imogena of Natalia. But he assures His Royal Highness that the course of conduct thus indicated would occasion him extreme regret. His Royal Highness is fully aware that he is still allowed to choose his own method of transmitting the required sum—provided that such method is communicated to the writer through the ‘Agony Column’ of the ‘Times.’ ” Bathurst wrinkled his brows, “This doesn’t tell me all,” he exclaimed. “May I look at the first letter of the series?” He extended his hand. The Crown Prince looked through his packet of envelopes and handed over the required letter. “Tranfield post-mark this time,” declared Anthony. “What date is this?” He looked at the post-mark very carefully. “April twenty-third—‘Tranfield.’ Let me think for a moment—Tranfield is only a few miles from Westhampton, I fancy.”
“You are right,” replied his Royal visitor, “nine—to be precise.”
The opening letter of the batch was much less shadowy—and far more to the point. “My dear Crown Prince,” it ran with cavalier camaraderie, “you are entering the matrimonial state next December. That is to say—perhaps—for ‘there’s many a slip!’ What would the Princess Imogena of Natalia say to a full story of your disgraceful ‘affaire’ of the last year or so with a certain lady, whose identity for the time being need not be disclosed. However, my gay and gallant lover, there is no especial need for uneasiness on your part. £50,000 will seal eternally my rosebud lips.” Similar directions to those in the letter that Anthony had just previously read were laid down concerning the transmission of the money. Bathurst looked at his client with judicial thoughtfulness.
“Far be it from me,” he murmured, “to trespass on Your Highness’s—shall we say—confidence”—he tapped the letter with his forefinger interrogatively . . . waiting quietly—yet with determination. Mr. Bathurst was nothing, if not delicate in affairs of this nature.