"What's more," said Hemingway, when this was reported to him, "it isn't likely there's more than one white sports-car with black wings in this district. I reckon that lets his Highness out. If he wants to go away, he can; but get his address, in case of accidents."
"He told Inspector Cook he hadn't got one," said Wake dubiously.
"Then he'd better think one up!" said Hemingway.
The Prince, however, discovered disconsolately flicking over the pages of a book in the doctor's pleasant library, was so relieved to hear that his presence in Stilhurst was no longer necessary, that he made no bones at all about divulging his address, but informed Sergeant Wake that he had a pied-a-terre in a private hotel in Bloomsbury. The Sergeant wrote it down, and the Prince said that for himself he would be very glad to be in London again. "I find it does not suit me, this English country life," he announced. "One stifles, in fact! There is no conversation; it is not amusing."
But when he informed his host of his imminent departure, nothing could have exceeded the grace with which he assured him that these days spent under his roof would remain in his memory as some of the most pleasant in his whole life.
The doctor said something conventionally civil; and, in answer to an anxious inquiry, advised the Prince most strongly not to adventure his person within the precincts of Palings.
"But it is absurd!" the Prince said. "It is seen that I had nothing to do with Carter's death! Rather it is Mr. Steel whom the police suspect, is it not so?"
"I really can't say," replied Chester stiffly.
"I wash my hands of the affair!" said the Prince. "But I must tell you, since you have been to me so extremely kind, that if it is Mr. Steel whom the police suspect, I must be glad, for he is not, after all, de nous autres, and I have had some fears that you, my friend, might suffer a little unpleasantness."
The doctor looked up quickly. "I?"