“Seen the prince guy off,” muttered the young fellow. “That is all I wanted to know. I’ll get up to the boss and hand it to him.”
It was a small, subdued-looking sort of hotel, in a side street to which the spy made his way, and asked for Mr. Miguel.
“There he is, on the other side of the lobby,” replied the clerk at the desk. “Do you know him when you see him?”
“Sure I know him,” was the reply, as the fellow slouched over to Prince Miguel.
“Well, Collins?” was Miguel’s greeting. “Did you see Prince Marcos go away?”
“Yes. He’s gone, with three other fellows. One of them was the man I’d seen before—his valet, Phillips. I don’t know the other two.”
“Ah! How did the prince look? Was he sick?”
“Didn’t seem so.”
“Couldn’t you tell?”
“No. He was muffled up in a big overcoat, and you could see only his nose and mustache.”