Mr. Karslake was silent, thoughtful. Sofia felt that she had scored and with determination pressed her point.
“Do you mind telling me why he doesn’t use that name, if it’s his?”
“See here, Princess Sofia”—Karslake slewed round to face her squarely with his most earnest and persuasive manner—“I am merely Prince Victor’s secretary, I’m not supposed to know all his secrets, and those I do know I’m supposed not to talk about. I’d much rather you put that question to Prince Victor yourself.”
“I shall,” Sofia announced with decision. “When am I to see him? To-night?”
“Of course. That is, I presume you will. I mean to say, Prince Victor wasn’t at home when I left, but if I know him he’s sure to be when we arrive. And I’m taking you there as directly as a motor can travel in this blessed town.”
Sofia looked out of the window. The car, having turned down Regent Street from Piccadilly Circus, was now traversing sedate Pall Mall; and in another moment it swung into the passage between St. James’s Palace and Marlborough House Chapel; and then they were in The Mall, with the Victoria Memorial ahead, glowing against the dingy backing of Buckingham Palace.
Now, since all Sofia’s reading had inculcated the belief that the enterprising kidnapper always made off with his victim by way of dark bystreets and unsavoury neighbourhoods, she felt somewhat reassured.
“Have we very far to go?”
“We’re almost there now—Queen Anne’s Gate.”
A good enough address. Though that proved nothing. There was still plenty of time, anything might happen....