“The Prince once ran from Boulogne to Nice in twenty-eight hours on his St. Christopher,” remarked the Rev. Thomas. “And in winter, too.”
“Marvellous!” declared the widow, adjusting her pale-blue motor-veil, new for the occasion. “There’s no doubt a great future before that car—especially after the record at Brooklands.”
“Rather!” exclaimed the rubicund vicar. “I’m only a poor parson, but if I had a little capital I should certainly put it in. I have inside knowledge, as they say in the City, I believe, Mrs Edmondson,” he laughed.
“From the Prince?”
“Of course. He intends having the largest interest in the concern. They’ve had eight orders for racers in the last six days. A record at Brooklands means a fortune to a manufacturer.”
His Highness was silent, while the self-satisfied widow discussed the future of the eight-cylinder St. Christopher.
Returning to the Hall, Ferrini came forth bowing to his mistress, and casting a distinctly suspicious glance at the two visitors. Both men noticed it, and were not a little apprehensive. They had played some clever games, but knew not from one moment to the other when some witness might not point a finger at them in open denunciation.
While the Prince was dressing for dinner Charles said:
“That butler fellow is far too inquisitive for my liking. I found him in here an hour ago, and I’m positive he had been trying to unlock your crocodile suit-case. He made an excuse that he had come to see whether you had a siphon of soda. But I actually caught him bending over your bag.”
The Prince remained grave and silent.