She smiled winningly at him.
"No, don't disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a pity after all the trouble you have taken—to catch the train."
Detective-Inspector Blake was not by any means dull. His immobile features gave no sign that he was half inclined to believe the woman was gibing him. "Now, what the devil does she mean by that?" he said, under his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and drawing a paper from his pocket unfolded it.
"And how is the charming Mr. Foyle?" said the Princess, speaking with a soft drawl. "I do hope he is still well."
This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped the paper as though it were red-hot, and the woman
laughed. A moment later he was ashamed of himself. She had trapped him into a tacit admission that he was a detective. A surprised denial of acquaintance with Mr. Foyle might have ended in an apology on her part for a mistake. Well, it was too late now.
"So you are a colleague of Mr. Foyle's?" she went on, and though her voice was soft there was a trace of mockery in it. "He is charmingly considerate to send you to look after me. I was desolated to think that I should have to take such a long journey by myself."
"The pleasure is mine," said Blake, falling in quickly with the atmosphere she had set. Nevertheless, he was not quite easy. He recalled the troubles that had beset Waverley, and half regretted that he had not brought his companion on the train with him.
"Smoke, if you like," she said, with a gracious wave of her hand. "I know you are dying to do so. Then we can talk. Do you know, I have long wished to have a talk with a real detective. Your work must be so fascinating."
He took a cigarette case slowly from his pocket, and dangled it in his hand. He had never before seen the Princess, but he was certain of her identity.