There was nothing more to be gained from Vassilitz, and the car rolled away. And as they went, Ruxton, in an agony of painful conviction, gazed sombrely back at the beautiful old Elizabethan structure in its perfect setting, which was the home of the woman he loved.
He was aroused from his despairing contemplation by the voice of the officer beside him.
"There's trickery afoot, sir," he said emphatically, "and I'll lay a month's salary that black-haired Vassilitz is in it."
Ruxton turned sharply.
"What makes you so convinced?" he enquired thickly.
"Why, the letters. Every one of 'em has been opened. So has this telegram. Didn't you twig it, sir?"
Ruxton confessed his oversight, and the officer beamed pleasant satisfaction.
"That's where experience comes in, sir," he went on. "There never was a system of opening letters that couldn't be detected by those who know. I've made a study of it. Those letters have all been opened—all of 'em. What about this telegram, sir?"
"If it's mine, then the Princess has not left of her own free will. I'm afraid it's mine."
"Princess, sir?"