That remark told me that he did not intend to pay any formal visit, as he had done on most of his journeys to Scotland.
"Your Imperial Highness will take guns, of course," I remarked.
"Guns!" he echoed. "No—no guns this time. If I want to shoot rabbits I can borrow a farmer's blunderbuss," he laughed.
That "Mickie," the hare-brained seeker after pleasure, was to be his companion caused me some uneasiness. It was all very well for the Crown-Prince to live in London as Herr Lehnhardt. London was a big place, and those who catered for his Imperial pleasures were paid well, and did not seek to inquire into his antecedents or whether he was really what he represented himself to be.
Money talks in the underground London, just as it does on the Stock Exchange. But it sometimes, I assure you, took a long purse to keep the foreign papers quiet regarding the wild escapades of the Kaiser's heir.
That night somehow I felt a good deal of apprehension regarding this mysterious flying visit to Scotland. That the pair had some deeply-laid scheme on hand I knew from their evasiveness. But what it was I failed to discover.
Early that morning I put "Cæsar" into a taxi with his suit-case. He wore a rough suit of tweeds, and took with him his walking-stick and a khaki-coloured waterproof coat, presenting the picture of a young man going North to shoot.
"I'll be back in a few days, Heltzendorff. Attend to the letters," he urged. "Throw away as many as you can. If I want you I will telegraph."
And with that he drove to the "Coburg" to meet his old chum, "Mickie."
About three o'clock that same afternoon, while walking along Piccadilly, I was surprised to come face to face with Von Hochberg.