“Why, the very suggestion would take the silly old woman’s breath away,” declared the Reverend Thomas.
“Well, if she’s so confoundedly generous, what is to prevent us from benefiting a bit? We sadly need it, Tommy,” the Prince declared. “I had a letter from Max the day before yesterday. He wants fifty wired without fail to the Poste Restante at Copenhagen. He’s lying low there, just now.”
“And one of the best places in Europe,” the Parson exclaimed. “It’s most snug at the ‘Angleterre,’ or at the ‘Bristol.’ I put in six months there once. Stockholm is another good spot. I was all one summer at that little hotel out at Salsjobaden, and had quite a good time. I passed as an American and nobody recognised me, though my description had been circulated all over Europe. The Swedish and Danish police are a muddle-headed lot—fortunately for fellows like ourselves who want to lie undisturbed. Have you sent Max the money?”
“I wired twenty-five this morning, and promised the balance in seven days,” responded his Highness, lighting a fresh cigarette with his half-consumed one. He always smoked in the Russian style, flinging away the end when only half finished.
Of the proceeds of the various coups made, his Highness took one-third, with one-third to Clayton, who was a schemer almost as ingenious as the Prince himself, and the remaining third was divided between Max Mason, Charles, and Garrett, the chauffeur.
The pair of conspirators spent the greater part of the afternoon together in exchanging confidences and arranging plans. Then his Highness rang for Garrett, and ordered him to bring round the car at five o’clock.
The Parson descended to the hall below, being followed ten minutes later by his Highness. The latter found his friend lounging picturesquely with the fascinated widow, and joined them at tea, greatly to the gratification of the “pompous old crow,” as Prince Albert had designated her half an hour before.
As they finished the tea and muffins, the big yellow racing-car drew slowly up to the door, and on seeing it the widow began to discuss motors and motoring.
“I have a car at home—a sixty-Mercédès—and I’m awfully fond of a run in it,” she told the Prince. “One gets about so quickly, and sees so much of the country. My poor husband hated them, so I never rode in one until after his death.”
“The car I have with me is a racer, as you see,” remarked his Highness. “It’s a hundred horse-power, and made a record on the Brooklands track just before I bought her. If you were not of the feminine sex, Mrs Edmondson, I’d invite you to go for a run with me,” he laughed. “It’s rather unsociable, for it’s only a two-seater, with Garrett on the step.”