“To Michael Lanyard, Intelligence Division, the War Office, Whitehall. Sir: Your daughter Sofia is now with me. Permit me to suggest that, in consideration of this situation, you cease to meddle with my affairs. Your own intelligence must tell you nothing could be more fatal than an attempt to communicate with her.”
“Sign on the typewriter with the initial V.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Type it on plain paper, use a plain envelope, be sure that neither has a watermark, and get it off to-night without fail. Take a taxi to St. Pancras station and post it there. If you make haste you can get it in a pillar-box before the last collection.”
“I shan’t lose a minute, sir.”
Karslake straightened up, folding the paper, and made for the door.
“One moment, Karslake.... This man, Nogam: where did you pick him up?”
“He used to buttle for my father, sir, but got into trouble—some domestic unpleasantness, I believe—needed money, and raised a cheque. The old boy let him off easy; but I’ve got the cheque, and Nogam knows it. The fellow’s perfectly trained and absolutely dependable, knows his place and his duties and not another blessed thing. I’ll send him in if you like.”
Prince Victor uttered with dry accent: “Why?”
“Thought you might care to have a talk with him, sir.”