“This gentleman,” he said, consulting the signature to the cheque, “is Prince Victor Vassilyevski. Please remember him. You may have to bear witness against him in court.”
“What insolence is this?” Victor demanded, hotly.
“Calm yourself, monsieur le prince.” Lanyard repeated the warning gesture. “He is a nobleman of Russia, or says he is, and—strangely enough, Harris!—a burglar. I caught him burglarizing my rooms when I came home just now. You may judge from his appearance what difficulty I had in subduing him.”
“’E do seem fair used up, sir,” Harris admitted, eyeing Victor indignantly. “Would you wish me to call a bobby and give ’im in charge?”
“Thanks, no. Prince Victor and I have compromised. He doesn’t relish going to jail, and I’ve no particular desire to send him there. But he does want what he broke in to steal—that painting you see under his arm—and I’ve agreed to sell it to him. Here’s the cheque he has just given me. Providing payment is not stopped on it, Harris, you will hear no more of this incident. But if by any chance the cheque should come back from his bank—I may ask you to testify to what you have seen and heard here to-night.”
“It is a lie!” Prince Victor shrilled. “You brought me in with you, assaulted me, blackmailed that cheque out of me! Nobody saw us—”
“Sorry,” Lanyard cut in; “but it so happens, that the gentleman who has the rooms immediately above came in when I did, and can testify that I was alone. That’s all, monsieur le prince. Your carriage waits.”
Harris opened the door. Choking with rage, the prince shuffled out, Lanyard politely escorting him to the curb. There, with a foot lifted to enter the four-wheeler, Prince Victor turned, shaking an impassioned hand in Lanyard’s face.
“You’ll pay me for this!” he spluttered. “I’ll square accounts with you, Lanyard, if I have to follow you to the gates of hell!”
“Better not,” Lanyard warned him fairly, “if you do, I’ll push you in ... Bon soir, monsieur le prince!”