As he called this name, Phillips came in, a tall, quiet-mannered young man in a plain business suit. He did not look like a valet. It was part of his latest instructions from his employer that he should not appear to be what he was. Marcos had wisely come to the conclusion that there must not be any suggestion of royalty about him or his entourage if he meant to get back in safety to his own realm within the time limit.
“You were hurt by those men who stole Prince Marcos—I mean, Mr. Joyal—from Crownledge, the night before last, were you not?” asked Nick Carter.
“Yes. But I am quite well now,” answered Phillips composedly.
“I am glad to hear it. Mr. Joyal may need your help. He will be starting for Joyalita to-night.”
“Very good, sir.”
Phillips would have said “Very good!” if he had been told that he was to be led to execution that night, or if it had been decided to make him Prince of Joyalita. Which is by way of saying that he was a perfectly trained man-servant of the European type. Impassiveness was his trade-mark.
He withdrew now, without another word.
“My mother is at Newport, visiting friends, and desires to stay there for a month,” remarked Marcos. “After that she will spend another month or two in this country. I am glad of it.”
“So am I,” said Nick Carter quietly. “It is better for the party that goes to Joyalita to be as small and unobtrusive as possible.”
“Is it necessary to wait until to-night before Marcos goes?” asked Claudia. “Don’t you think it will be dangerous for him to remain in New York all day?”