13 The Saint Intervenes (Boodle)

His Highness arrived in London without any preliminary publicity; but he permitted a number of reporters to inter­view him at his hotel after his arrival, and the copy which he provided had a sensation value which no self-respecting news editor could ignore.

It started before the assembled pressmen had drunk more than half the champagne which was provided for them in the Prince's suite, which still stands as a record for any re­ception of that type; and it was started by a cub reporter, no more ignorant than the rest, but more honest about it, who had not been out on that kind of assignment long enough to learn that the serious business of looking for a story is not supposed to mar the general conviviality while there is any­thing left to drink.

'Where,' asked this revolutionary spirit brazenly, with his mouth full of foie gras, 'is Cherkessia?'

The Prince raised his Mephistophelian eyebrows.

'You,' he replied, with faint contempt, 'would probably know it better as Circassia.'

At the sound of his answer a silence spread over the room. The name rang bells, even in journalistic heads. The cub gulped down the rest of his sandwich without tasting it; and one reporter was so far moved as to put down a glass which was only half empty.

'It is a small country between the Caucasus Mountains and the Black Sea,' said the Prince. 'Once it was larger; but it has been eaten away by many invaders. The Turks and the Russians have robbed us piecemeal of most of our lands— although it was the Tatars themselves who gave my country its name, from their word Cherktkess, which means 'robbers.' That ancient insult was long since turned to glory by my ancestor Schamyl, whose name I bear; and in the paltry lands which are still left to me the proud traditions of our race are carried on to this day.'

The head of the reporter who had put down his glass was buzzing with vague memories.

'Do you still have beautiful Circassians?' he asked hun­grily.

'Of course,' said the Prince. 'For a thousand years our women have been famed for their beauty. Even today, we export many hundreds annually to the most distinguished harems in Turkey—a royal tax on these transactions,' added the Prince, with engaging simplicity, 'has been of great as­sistance to our national budget.'

The reporter swallowed, and retrieved his glass hurriedly; and the cub who had started it all asked, with bulging eyes: 'What other traditions do you have, Your Highness?'

'Among other things,' said the Prince, 'we are probably the only people today among whom the droit de seigneur survives. That is to say that every woman in my country be­longs to me, if and when I choose to take her, for as long as I choose keep her in my palace.'

'And do you still exercise that right?' asked another journalist, with estatic visions of headlines floating through his mind.

The Prince smiled, as he might have smiled at at naivety of a child.

'If the girl is sufficiently attractive—of course. It is a di­vine right bestowed upon my family by Mohammed himself. In my country it is considered an honour to be chosen, and the marriageable value of any girl on whom I bestow my right is greatly increased by it.'

From that moment the reception was a historic success; and the news that one reason for the Prince's visit was to approve the final details of a new ?100,000 crown which was being prepared for him by a West End firm of jewellers was almost an anticlimax.

Chief Inspector Teal read the full interview in his morn­ing paper the following day; and he was so impressed with its potentialities that he made a personal call on the Prince that afternoon.

'Is this really the interview you gave, Your Highness?' he asked, when he had introduced himself, 'or are you going to repudiate it?'

Prince Schamyl took the paper and read it through. He was a tall well-built man with a pointed black beard and twirled black moustaches like a