His friend the doctor was of quite a different type, a short, fair-haired man in gold-rimmed spectacles, whose face was somewhat unattractive, though it bore an expression of studiousness and professional knowledge. He certainly had the appearance of a doctor.
But before I went farther I resolved to make searching inquiry unto the antecedents of this mysterious Dick Drury.
The walk in the moonlight along the broad promenade towards Hove was delightful. I begged Her Highness to drive, but she preferred to walk; the autumn night was so perfect, she said.
As we strolled along, she suddenly exclaimed:
“I can’t help recalling that man we saw on the pier. I remember now! I met him about a week ago, when I was shopping in Western Road, and he followed me for quite a distance. He was then much better dressed.”
“You believe, then, he is a Russian?” I asked quickly.
“I feel certain he is.”
“But you were not alone—Oleg was out with you, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “He never leaves me. I only wish he would sometimes. I hate to be spied upon like this. Either Dmitri or Oleg is always with me.”
“It is highly necessary,” I declared. “Recollect the fate of your poor father.”