“It may be of service,” he said, significantly. “I don’t much like prying into another man’s affairs, but in this case his and mine are, in a way, identical.”
The Irishman nodded.
“We’ll keep it until you’ve told me all you know without it,” he suggested, taking out a briarwood pipe and filling it, “so drive ahead, lad, and don’t omit any details.”
And then Grey told his story, beginning with the glimpse of von Einhard, on the Boulevard St. Martin; following with the visit of Edson and the overheard announcement that he, Grey, was the Crown Prince Maximilian; the reappearance of the Baron; Lutz’s suspicious demeanour; the attempt on his life; the finding of the ring; the ring’s history; and, finally, his own deductions.
O’Hara listened attentively, blowing great clouds of smoke from under his red moustache. Occasionally he interrupted with a question. When the recital was concluded he got up and extended his hand.
“Well done, man,” he exclaimed; “you have been making hay in sun and rain alike. I wonder if we could lay our hands on this Baron von Einhard. It seems to me that he is just the chap we want to make friends with.”
“I dare say he is still hanging about,” the American replied; “he probably has not lost sight of me. I’d know him if I saw him again. We’ll have a look in at the cafés a little later. And now about Lindenwald and the others. Didn’t the portier know which way they went?”
“No, they hailed a couple of passing fiacres, and he didn’t hear what directions were given.”
Grey tore open the telegram which O’Hara had tossed onto the table. It was dated Kürschdorf. “The King is dead,” it read; “wire when you will be here,” and it was signed, “Ritter.”