“Of course. He is anxious for you to go in. He saw you through the window, coming up from the river.”
Marcos was a well-built, robust young man at ordinary times. But he did not look robust just now. His face was pale and his movements lacked their usual resiliency.
Notwithstanding all this, his resemblance to Nick Carter was startling. The features were alike, and even the poise of the head, the set of the shoulders, and the general attitude, were identical.
“This is a pleasure, Mr. Carter!”
As Prince Marcos said this, the girl actually looked closely at her cousin to make sure that he was speaking, and not the detective.
“Glad to see you are all right, sir,” returned Carter. “You’ll pardon my not calling you ‘your highness,’ will you not? In the first place, I do not think it would be wise for you to use your title while in New York, and then again I must confess it is much easier to me to speak as if you were an ordinary American or Englishman.”
“Quite right, my dear Carter!” returned Marcos heartily. “I wish you would address me as plain Mr. Joyal. That will suggest my country to me, and the name does not smell of royalty, does it?”
He asked this with a naïveté that pleased the detective. There was no nonsense about Marcos.
“Very well, Mr. Joyal. That shall be your name hereafter. Where is your valet?”
“He is here. In the adjoining room. Phillips!”