The intervening days had been very busy ones indeed for Mr. Edward Povey, and ever since the Cornish Riviera train had set him down on the shores of Mount's Bay he had considered that a complete rest was due to him. Besides, he told himself that it wanted two days yet till the 15th of November, and until that date he had no need to pay his visit to the heiress to the throne of San Pietro.
He had seen her once driving a smart little governess cart through the quaint and steep streets of the Cornish town, and he had found out her identity from the unsolicited testimony of the aged waiter who had noticed him looking at her.
"There she goes, bless her, the best little woman and the best heart in the Duchy," he had said, crossing the room to the window and letting his eyes follow the dainty little lady as she leant out of her trap to give an order to the grocer who had left his shop and stood rubbing his hands together on the curb. Edward had asked who she was.
"That's Miss Baxendale, sir, her who lives out to Tremoor Churchtown; not a man in West Cornwall who doesn't worship the ground she drives over—no, nor a woman either, which is saying a goodish deal. When my wife was down with sciatic, sir, she didn't want for naught, she——"
But Edward was not listening, he was gazing spell-bound at the object of the old man's talk. And a picture she made well worth the regard.
Miss Baxendale had now descended from the "jingle" and was standing chatting to the grocer in his doorway. Edward Povey looked in admiration at the trim little figure clad in its well-made white mackintosh that reached almost to the heels of the tiny brown walking boots. Her face was turned three-quarters towards him, and for the first time he began to doubt his wisdom in entering upon the adventure.
Curiously enough the personality of the Princess had not entered into his calculations, he had looked upon her merely as a unit in the scheme as a whole, a spoke in the wheel of the undertaking.
Now he asked himself what he was to do with this perfect creature, a very queen among girls, a being whose every look and gesture spoke of the highest breeding and culture, a girl in whose presence he could not but feel awkward and ill at ease. He had half an idea then and there of abandoning the whole affair, and going back to London, but second thoughts brought back memories of two deserted houses and pointed out to him that he had gone too far to retreat. It was a momentary return of the Edward Povey of a few weeks ago, of the personality he had striven to put behind him.
He alone of all people knew the history of this lovely girl, and in his possession were the papers and trinkets given him in his final interview with Mr. Nixon, all the evidence which proved the high descent of the Princess. In his hands alone was her future. He remembered, too, the generous balance now standing to the credit of himself, Mr. Sydney, in the Royal Bank of Spain. To this, as he was pleased to read Mr. Baxendale's letter, he felt himself quite entitled, as the one who had undertaken the mission. Before leaving London he had burnt his boats beyond redemption, and to give in now would not only mean a return to the old hated life, but he feared he had laid himself open to criminal proceedings.
Charlotte he had provided for and had left that estimable lady in a state of delighted bewilderment at Abbot's Hotel, and the thought of returning to her, for both their sakes, was distasteful to him in the extreme.