“That’s the man from Scotland Yard!” exclaimed the Prince aloud. “Show him up.”
A few moments later a rather pale-faced, fair-haired man in shabby brown tweeds was ushered in, and the waiter, who knew the story of Charles’s sudden discharge, retired.
“Good evening, Prince,” exclaimed the new-comer. “I got your wire and came at once.” At the same time he produced from his pocket a small cartridge envelope containing something slightly bulky, but carefully sealed.
“Right! Go over there, Max, and help yourself to a drink. You’re at the ‘George,’ I suppose?”
“No. I’ve got a room here—so as to be near you—in case of necessity, you know,” he added meaningly.
The two men exchanged glances.
It was evident at once that Mr Mason was no stranger, for he helped himself to a cigarette uninvited, and, mixing a small drink, drained it off at a single gulp.
Then, after chatting for a quarter of an hour or so, he went out “just to get a wash,” as he put it.
The Prince, when he had gone, turned over the small packet in his hand without opening it.
Then he rose, walked to the window, and in silence looked out upon the old church opposite, deep in thought.