The pair returned about one o’clock, and at luncheon explained what they had done.
In the afternoon, the widow met his Highness out in the tent upon the lawn, and they sat together for some time, he enjoying his eternal “Petroff.” Indeed, he induced her to smoke one, in order to soothe her nerves.
“Don’t upset yourself too much, my dear Gertrude,” he urged, placing his hand upon hers. “We shall catch the fellow, never fear. Do you know, I’ve been wondering whether, if I went up to town and saw them at Scotland Yard, it would not be the wisest course. I know one of the superintendents. I met him when my life was threatened by anarchists, and the police put me under their protection. The Whitby police seem very slow. Besides, by this time Ferrini is far afield.”
“I really think, Albert, that it would be quite a good plan,” exclaimed the widow enthusiastically. “If you went to Scotland Yard they would, no doubt, move heaven and earth to find the thief.”
“That’s just what I think,” declared his Highness. “I’ll go by the six-twenty.”
“But you’ll return here to-morrow, won’t you?” urged the widow. “The people I have here will be so disappointed if you don’t—and—and as for myself,” she added, her fat face flushing slightly—“well, you know that I am only happy when you are near me.”
“Trust me, Gertrude. I’ll return at once—as soon as ever I’ve set the machinery of Scotland Yard in motion. I have the negative of the photo I took, and I’ll hand it to them.”
And so that evening, without much explanation to his fellow guests, he ran up to town, leaving Charles and most of his baggage behind.
Next day, Mrs Edmondson received a long and reassuring telegram from him in London.
Two days passed, but nothing further was heard. Garrett, without a car, and therefore without occupation, decided to go up to London. The theft of the car had utterly puzzled him. Whatever coup his master and his friends had intended had evidently been effected by the man Ferrini. All their clever scheming had been in vain.