The scientists left about four o'clock, wagging their heads, and unanimously agreeing that the whole thing had them fooled. Half an hour after they had gone, a familiar figure projected itself into the scene.
Prince Matani had a habit of calling around tea-time. He had abandoned all pretensions to being other than he was, a hard-boiled sceptic of everything that had transpired in relation to the planet Mars. Jane, Pat and I were gathered around the tea table, on the shady side of the terrace, when he appeared.
"Good afternoon, everybody," he greeted us jovially, and then he dropped his light manner, and put a copy of that morning's Daily Recorder in Pat's hand.
"I suppose you've read that awful stuff?" he said.
"Yes," Pat replied; "and it's all true."
The Prince shrugged. "What are the police doing here?" he asked.
"On guard," I informed him.
"On guard—for what, pray? Surely you're not frightened of a little baboon that came wrapped up in that toy sky-rocket?"
"We're all pretty shaky," said Pat.
"In that case, I shall invite myself to spend the night here, and go on guard. I want to be sure you're safe." He leaned over Pat, his face diffused with amorous longing.