Mr. Lucius clapped the palms of his two hands together in uncontrollable emotion. Anthony realised at once that His Royal Highness was certainly in a highly-nervous state and that his previous protestations to that effect had strong foundation. He had been frightened by something and frightened badly. Anthony remembered his parting words at their interview of a week ago. He had threatened to let nothing stand in his way—and at the moment was badly rattled. Anthony decided upon reflection, that it promised to turn out a distinctly interesting case. His host stopped his nervy pacing of the room and plunged himself ill-humouredly into an arm-chair. “I will be very frank,” he commenced. “Although it goes against the grain of my inclination—yet I will tell you all.” He laid his finely-shaped hand upon Anthony’s arm with an imperious movement. “After I left your rooms, Mr. Bathurst, at the end of last week, I drove straight to my hotel ‘The Florizel.’ And although I was very much preoccupied on the journey, nevertheless I was convinced when I reached my destination that I had been followed. By two men! They were hanging about outside your rooms when I left there—and I am positive that they followed me in a small two-seater car to my hotel. However, it is of the smallest importance, perhaps. What I am going to tell you now belongs to what you will call—a different category. ‘Une autre galère.’ By the next morning’s post I received another surprising communication. Not in the atrocious handwriting of that ‘detestable’—no—from a lady.” He paused to see the effect of his words but Anthony’s face was as inscrutable as ever. “In fact, Mr. Bathurst, from the lady.”
“Really,” murmured Anthony with the suspicion of a smile. “I take it you were extremely surprised?”
“Most assuredly,” replied Mr. Lucius, “I had not heard from the lady for a considerable length of time, as I informed you last week. And if I was surprised to receive the letter, I was still more surprised at the nature of its contents. Unfortunately—in the light of after events—I destroyed it.”
Mr. Bathurst lifted his eye-brows—was His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Clorania always a stickler for veracity, he wondered?
“But I can remember it verbatim—every word, Mr. Bathurst.” The Crown Prince leaned back in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, placed his finger-tips together and proceeded to remember the contents of his letter. “It was as follows,” he announced pompously, “ ‘Dear Alexis, I am perfectly aware, you will be surprised to know, that you have made two unsuccessful attempts to transfer a certain particular object from my possession to your own. Advices received to-day, that I cannot disregard, tell me that you have sought the professional assistance of Mr. Anthony Bathurst. I happen to know something of that gentleman, you see, as my solicitors are “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.” Upon mature reflection therefore, I have decided to discontinue what would be a hopeless struggle. I liked you once, Alexis, very, very much. Because of that, and because I’m a silly idiot as well, I’m going to give the photo back to you and burn all the letters. Meet me at the Hotel where we stayed in Seabourne before. I will give it to you there. Will some time next week suit you?’ ” His Highness turned in his chair. “That, Mr. Bathurst, is reproduced as accurately as I can recall it.” A spirit of uneasiness appeared to take possession of him. “It was signed,” he added in an apparent afterthought and undertone, “by a pet-name that I had used upon previous occasions when addressing her. It would not assist you at all to know it. To cut a long story short, Mr. Bathurst, I came to this Hotel on Tuesday last, met the lady, as she had suggested, on the following day and as a matter of fact was able to bring the affair that was so important and interesting to me to a highly-satisfactory conclusion. The lady concerned left the Hotel on Wednesday evening—I stayed on.”
His Royal Highness sprang to his feet as he finished his story. His excitement and anxiety had temporarily mastered him. He approached Anthony and his face was white, shaking and uncontrolled. “Mr. Bathurst,” he exclaimed, “when I called upon you at the end of last week you will remember I refused to divulge the name of the lady in the case—I told you that I was a man of honour.” His voice shook with emotion. “Now I feel myself as compelled to reveal it, even though at the risk of injuring myself. Fate has taken a hand in the game, Mr. Bathurst. The lady’s name was Daphne Carruthers—and I learn from the Press this morning and also from a medley of cursed, gossiping tongues in this infernal seaside town—that she was murdered here in Seabourne—yesterday.” His voice was now completely hoarse. With grief or with anxiety, Anthony was unable to decide. But he went on. Standing erect in the middle of the room, he raised his right-hand dramatically over his head. “And I myself, it is more than possible will be the ‘suspect.’ I would not have had such a terrible affair happen for the world. It will ruin me.” He gestured helplessly in Mr. Bathurst’s direction, then sank into his chair again—his head in his hands.
“When did you last see Miss Carruthers?” demanded the latter.
“On the evening of Wednesday—we dined together—early—settled our little differences, and parted—to go our own ways and to lead our own lives. We understood each other.”
“You had possession, then, I take it, of the photograph?” remarked Anthony.
“But certainly—I had come to get it. It is destroyed.”