“When did you last see Miss Carruthers?” demanded the latter.
“On the evening of Wednesday—we dined together—early—settled our little differences, and parted—to go our own ways and to lead our own lives. We understood each other.”
“You had possession, then, I take it, of the photograph?” remarked Anthony.
“But certainly—I had come to get it. “It is destroyed.”
“And the letters—!”
“We burned them together,” rejoined the Crown Prince.”
“Where?”
“In a wood that lies off the road to Froam.”
Anthony looked grave.
“The letters you had threatening blackmail—those you left with me—what had Miss Carruthers to say regarding them?”
“But that is remarkable! I taxed her with them—she denied all knowledge of them.”
“Did you believe her?”
The Crown Prince shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “Can a man ever believe a woman with whom he’s once been in love?”
Anthony shot a quick glance at him. He was not an amorist and supremely contemptuous of the professional philanderer. To him, “le pays du Tendre” was far too sacred a country for such light imaginings. “You’re more qualified to answer that question than I, Your Highness. Did you believe her?”
The Crown Prince sulkily reflected for a brief moment. “Well—on the whole—I think I did. Her denial of the affair seemed to me to be transparently honest.”
“Tell me,” said Anthony, “was it, as far as you know, the intention of Miss Carruthers, to return to her home at once—or did she intend to stay anywhere else in Seabourne?”
“She intended to return to London by the last train on Wednesday evening—she told me so.”
“Of course,” suggested Anthony, “her plans may have been altered—an attack of violent tooth-ache, for instance, has a lot of force behind it.”
“No mention was made to me of any tooth-ache. She had none while she was with me,” grumbled His Royal Highness.
Anthony couldn’t resist the feeling that the Crown Prince regarded it as most inconsiderate on the part of miss Carruthers to have been murdered. “You have been seen together here, of course?” he queried.
“But naturally! We dined ‘à deux’ in the hotel on Wednesday evening. There is for example, a Captain Willoughby staying here who was also here in the hotel when we styed before. They say he lives here permanently. If you remember—”
“He was the taker of the particularly-important photograph,” interjected Anthony. He made a point of remembering most things—did Mr. Bathurst.
“That is so,” supplemented the Crown Prince, “you see Captain Willoughby will be certain to connect us.”
Anthony could find no reason to contest the point. “Undoubtedly,” he responded.
His Highness came over to him again. “Tell me,” he said, rather more imperiously than Mr. Bathurst considered commendable, “what steps had you taken in respect of my own case? Had you made any investigations?”
“It was my intention to have started to-day—strangely enough. I was on the point of starting for Westhampton this evening—your telegram calling me down here was the thing that stopped me. I was convinced, you see, that a judicious inquiry in the Westhampton district might yield good result.”
The Crown Prince nodded in corroboration. Putting his right hand on Anthony’s shoulder he looked very carefully round the apartment—then sank his voice to a mere whisper. “Mr. Bathurst,” he said softly, “I take it you are quite familiar with the facts?”
“Of yesterday’s tragedy?”
“Yes—of the murder.”
“Only so far as I have been able to read the morning papers.”
The Crown Prince nodded again. “Quite so—and you will agree I feel sure that it appears to be a most remarkable case. You will have been able to glean sufficient from the accounts in the Press to admit that. Listen—I have a theory—an idea has persisted in my brain since I heard the affair in the first place. Those letters that were addressed to me. Vile blackmail! Mr. Bathurst—supposing that blackmailer is also the murderer of Miss Carruthers. It fits! It is on all four legs as you English day. Supposing he knew that Miss Carruthers and I had met amicably—that the affair was settled—that she had returned the photograph to my keeping—that the letters were burned—it would be clear to him that I could snap the finger-tips to him—that I could treat his threats with scorn—with disdain—in short that I could say to him, ‘Go to Hell.’ Well, then—assume that he knows what I have just said—he follows Miss Carruthers whose arrangement with me has spoiled his little game and in a rage and passion at being thwarted—he kills her at this dentist’s to whom she has gone. Why not—I say—why not? Find my blackmailer, Mr. Bathurst—and you’ll find the murderer of Daphne Carruthers.” He paused—his face and lips tremulous with anxiety and excitement—and took out a cigarette. Anthony watched him closely—the affair had got badly on his nerves—there was no denying the fact.
“It’s feasible, certainly,” he conceded. “But it would be extremely injudicious of me to debate the case, with so little first-hand evidence upon which to go. The worst mistake any investigator can ever make is to let his brain run away and play mental Badminton with fanciful theories. It might pay, perhaps, once—or even twice—but I can hardly see it bringing consistent success. And, as, in this case, I am not likely to obtain any first-hand evidence—”
His host interposed eagerly. “But you are, Mr. Bathurst. You are!
