His manner changed. The feverish excitement of the furious avenger (on critics) faded. With lifted head—yet not assertively lifted, but held high with an hereditary and inbred dignity—and the quiet accents of habitual and unquestioned authority, he said:
“I am Adam, Prince of Woodseweedsetisky.” He pronounced it as if it were written Vode-s’-vade-s’-teesky.
There is a common phrase for describing a blank silence after a shock; “one could have heard a pin drop.” In the silence that filled Villa Rose, one could feel the temperature drop. In time, Rosamond found her faculties of speech.
“Er—er—it’s very good of you, Dr. Frei, to attempt this—er—masquerade for my sake. But my reputation has already been saved—by Prince Adam of—Woodse....”
“Vode-s’-vade-s’-teesky.”
“Ye—es. The real Prince Adam is here.” She looked about for her prince.
“Hi found ’im. ’Ere’s ’Is ’Ighness—’idin’ up ’ere.”
His Highness, the Vagabond, perforce stepped out of his concealment into Dr. Frei’s ken. He bowed to him ceremoniously, respectfully, yet with a sparkle of mirth in his eye.
“This is Prince Adam,” Mrs. Mearely said.
“At your service,” he said, to Frei.