“I brought her safely back again to us,” was his simple answer. “See. She is my wife!”
Lûk is here, outside Belgrade, the Prince added. But in secret, for a price is set upon his head. He is a Turkish brigand, and he and his band terrorise the Montenegrin border. The Servian Government offered, only a month ago, twenty thousand dinars for his capture. They little dream he is in hiding in a cave over in yonder mountain, and that he is supplied with food by his faithful little wife here!
And true sportsman that he was, he raised his glass again to her—and to her husband.
Chapter Eleven.
Touching the Widow’s Mite.
One.
The Prince, keen motorist that he was, had—attended by the faithful Garrett, of course—been executing some remarkably quick performances on the Brooklands track.
About a month before he had purchased a hundred horse-power racing-car, and now devoted a good deal of his time to the gentle art of record-breaking. Some of his times for “the mile” had been very creditable, and as Mr Richard Drummond, son of a Manchester cotton magnate, his name was constantly appearing in the motor journals. Having for the time being discarded the purple, and with it his cosy chambers off Piccadilly, he had now taken up his quarters at that small hotel so greatly patronised by motorists, the “Hut,” on the Ripley Road.