“Then keep an eye on that confounded Italian. Send that letter to Max, and tell him to reply to you in cipher. His letter might fall into somebody else’s hands. Max might also inquire into what the police arrangements are about here—where the village constable lives, and where is the nearest police-station.”
“Couldn’t you send me in to Whitby, and I’d give him all instructions, and tell him the state of affairs?”
“Yes. Go in the morning. Garrett will take you in on the car. Say you’re going to buy me a book I want.”
And with that his Highness finished tying his cravat with care, and descended into the pretty drawing-room, where the widow, lounging picturesquely beneath the yellow-shaded lamp, awaited him.
That evening the Parson, who complained of headache on account of the sun during a walk in the morning, retired to his room early, and until past eleven the Prince sat alone with his fat and flattered hostess.
As she lolled back in the big silk-covered easy-chair, slowly fanning herself and trying to look her best, he, calm, calculating person that he was, had his eyes fixed upon her sparkling necklet, wondering how much the old Jew in Amsterdam would give for it.
“What a splendid ornament!” he remarked, as though he had noticed it for the first time.
“Do you like it?” she asked with a smile. “It belonged to my husband’s family.”
“Beautiful!” remarked his Highness, bending closer to examine it, for he had the eye of a connoisseur, and saw that it was probably French work of the eighteenth century.
“Many people have admired it,” she went on. “My husband was very fond of jewellery, and gave me quite a quantity. I never keep it here, however, for a year ago an attempt was made to break into the place.”