As the slate roof of the little railway station became visible through the trees Basil suddenly turned to Ireland. “I don’t know how long I will be away,” he said, as if talking to an equal and a friend. “You know, Ireland, that Piotr is going to stay at Plenhöel with the Marquis and Mademoiselle during my absence.”
“I do, Highness.”
“Very well. You will probably be called upon to act as riding-master to him, just as you were years ago to the ‘Gamin.’”
“I hope I will, Highness,” said Ireland, happily.
“This being so, you will need to know the time of day to a minute. With a wild youngster like Piotr it will be necessary, I am certain.”
Ireland permitted himself a smile; wondering, though, why each time that the Prince pronounced his son’s name there occurred so startling a hardening of his voice.
“Now,” continued Basil, “this is a reliable timekeeper.” He passed both reins into his right hand, and with the left jerked from his waistcoat pocket his own chronometer by Juergeson—a priceless gem of its kind—and held it out, chain and all, to the astounded man beside him.
“Oh, but—but Your Highness! This is Your Highness’s own watch—there’s a crown on it!”
“I know,” Basil smiled. “It is not meant to be a tip, Ireland; merely a souvenir from one horseman to another.”
The fast trotter in the shafts was just rounding the angle of the station yard. Basil gave the reins to Ireland and jumped out. Far down the line the shrill whistle of the express was cutting the breeze like an arrow.