"But the charming Patricia seems to have lost her head over him," Olinski rejoined. "So what can you do?"
"It's up to you to do something," I answered, promptly. "You are in a position to know all the discreditable incidents in the Prince's past, and your word carries great weight with Henry. Surely you do not believe that he really loves Pat?"
"Only for her money," Olinski replied. "A make-believe of love. Froth in an empty glass. He needs the money to get his coronet out of pawn, and get the gas and water turned on at the seedy, shabby chateau in France he calls his castle."
"Then you will tell Henry the truth about this threadbare, titled foreigner?"
"Ah, my friend, that will be a great pleasure, although he is the genuine article, you know. I can't disprove his claim to the title."
"After all, I suppose you have a certain fondness for the Prince," I suggested.
"Not at all," Olinski replied, almost wrathfully. "He is the most impudent person I ever met. At the last dinner we attended together, what do you think he said to me? He accused me of smelling of garlic. Did you ever hear of anything quite so low? As God is my witness, I detest that evil-smelling plant, garlic."
He clicked his teeth, and went on with desperate finality.
"I will tell you one thing more, and then I shall have told you enough. Your niece and Prince Matani should never marry, for he has a hereditary malady—sudden and violent attacks which produce unconsciousness. Some great excitement, and, then—pst!—he falls unconscious. At Monte Carlo, he gambled all he had, and lost. Pst!"
"Shocking!" I murmured.