The next day and the next I waited in vain for some word from His Highness. I had sent Knof back to the Harz to post the replies I had written, and with nothing to do I idled about London.
On the third day, when I returned to Jermyn Street after lunch, I found a stout German, named Henkel, who carried on a hairdresser's business near High Street, Kensington, but who was really a secret agent. He was one of the few persons who knew of the Crown-Prince's visit, for each time we came to London we took this man into our confidence.
"I have received a telegram from Holzemme, Count," he said as I entered, and then he handed me the message, which, after a few minutes' examination—for though in plain language it was nevertheless not what it purported to be—I saw to my dismay was an important message to "Willie" from the Emperor, who was at that moment in Corfu.
The message had been received by Koch, my assistant, whom I had left at Holzemme. He had disguised it and re-transmitted it to Henkel to hand to me. We always took this precaution, because when abroad incognito, both the Crown-Prince and myself frequently changed our names. So, by employing Henkel in London and a man named Behm in Paris, we were always certain of receiving any important message.
When the spy Henkel had left I stood looking out of the window down into Jermyn Street, quite at a loss how to act. The message was one of the greatest importance, and, if not replied to at once, the Emperor would, I knew, institute inquiries, for he was well aware of his son's wild escapades.
My first impulse was to wire Koch a reply to be dispatched to His Majesty, but on reflection I realized that the question was one which I could not answer with truth. No. I must find His Highness at all hazards.
At once I went to the Coburg Hotel, and fortunately found Count von Hochberg, who at first refused to reveal where his friend was hidden. But when I showed him the telegram and explained the great urgency of a reply, in order to prevent the Emperor from inquiring and knowing the truth, he realized the necessity.
"Well, Heltzendorff," he said, somewhat reluctantly, "Cæsar is at some little place they call St. Fillans, in Scotland."
"I know it," I cried eagerly. "A place at the end of Loch Earn! We motored past it one day about two years ago. I shall go North at once."
"But you can telegraph to him," the Count suggested.