“You must start directly after lunch for the Highlands, Garrett,” he had said suddenly, his dark, clearly defined brows slightly knit. He was still in his velvet smoking-jacket, and smoked incessantly his brown “Petroffs.”
“I know,” he went on, “that the weather is wretched—but it is imperative. We must have the car up there.”
Garrett was disappointed, for they were only just back from Hamburg, and he had expected at least to spend a few days with his own people down at Surbiton.
“What?” he asked, “another coup?” His Highness smiled meaningly.
“We’ve got a rather ticklish piece of work before us, Garrett,” he said, contemplating the end of his cigar. “There’s a girl in it—a very pretty little girl. And you’ll have to make a lot of love to her—you understand?” And the gay nonchalant fellow laughed as his eyes raised themselves to the chauffeur’s.
“Well,” remarked the man, somewhat surprised. “You make a much better lover than I do. Remember the affair of the pretty Miss Northover?”
“Yes, yes!” he exclaimed impatiently. “But in this affair it’s different. I have other things to do besides love-making. She’ll have to be left to you. I warn you, however, that the dainty Elfrida is a dangerous person—so don’t make a fool of yourself, Garrett.”
“Dangerous?” he echoed.
“I mean dangerously attractive, that’s all. Neither she, nor her people, have the least suspicion. The Blair-Stewarts, of Glenblair Castle, up in Perthshire, claim to be one of the oldest families in the Highlands. The old fellow made his money at shipbuilding, over at Dumbarton, and bought back what may be, or may not be, the family estate. At any rate, he’s got pots of the needful, and I, having met him with his wife and daughter this autumn at the ‘Excelsior,’ at Aix, am invited up there to-morrow to spend a week or so. I’ve consented if I may go incognito as Mr Drummond.”
“And I go to take the car up?”