“Better see what the lady has to say then,” suggested Anthony decisively. “She at least will be able to clear up some of the parts that have been puzzling us. That’s very apparent!”
His Royal Highness spoke a few sharp words through the telephone and then listened attentively for the lady’s answer. Anthony noticed him nod repeatedly at what he heard and a sudden look of complete amazement crossed his face. “Hold on, Daphne, for a moment,” Anthony heard him say. “Miss Carruthers say she left Seabourne at three minutes past ten on Wednesday evening and that her train arrived at Victoria at a quarter past eleven.” His voice contained a note of triumph that he made no attempt to conceal. “You will notice, Mr. Bathurst, that she had no other assignation.”
“I notice that she says she hadn’t,” replied that gentleman, “but go on.”
“She tells me that she arrived at her home in Lexham Gardens, Kensington, at twenty-five minutes to twelve. She has occupied a flat there for some time now. Yesterday evening she had been to the theatre and reached home about the same time as the previous evening. As she entered she states that she heard her telephone ringing. Before she could get into the room to answer it the ringing ceased and was not again repeated. Being very tired and attaching no particular importance to it, she didn’t trouble to make inquire is, she says, but went straight to bed. Early this morning the Police called with the fantastic story (to her, of course) that Daphne Carruthers had been found murdered in a dental surgeon’s operating room at Seabourne. Naturally she was able to laugh at their story and to convince them that they were at that moment actually talking to the supposedly murdered girl and that the story to which she was listening must be all wrong somewhere. They’ve informed the Police at this end, she says, of the dreadful mistake that has been made. She ’phoned me to find out if possible how the ghastly error could have occurred and also to allay any fears that I might have had on her behalf.” He coughed. “She’s coming straight down here by the first fast train.”
“She can’t account in any way for the mistake, then?” queried Anthony.
The Crown Prince shook his head gravely. “No—she’s as much in the dark, she tells me, as the Police themselves.”
“Did she tell you what time it was when the Police up the other end sent the news down here? I mean the news that the first idea was all wrong—that Daphne Carruthers was alive and that the murdered girl had still to be identified.”
“‘Early this morning,’ was the phrase she used.”
“H’m!” rejoined Anthony. “I wonder why—how about your theory of the blackmailer—it won’t quite answer now, will it?” He broke off abruptly as this new aspect of the case came home to him.
His Royal Highness shook his head again. “It won’t—what shall we do?”
“Do you still want me to take the case?”
“Yes, please, if you will. I am far from satisfied and I shan’t feel easy in my mind till it is all cleared up.” He looked at Anthony. “Why has Miss Carruthers’ name been dragged into the case? Tell me that. For some wicked and malicious reason, doubtless. Yes, Mr. Bathurst, I do want you to take the case… if for nothing else to protect my interests.”
“In that case, then,” said Anthony, “our best plan will be to await Miss Carruthers’ arrival.”
The fast train that Miss Daphne Carruthers had indicated in her telephone message did not fail either its reputation or its description and within an hour and a half she was inquiring from the before-mentioned gentlemen of faultless attire and magnificent bearing who graced the entrance to the “Cassandra,” if she could be escorted to Suite 17.
“It was extremely kind of you to meet me at the station,” she exclaimed, turning charmingly and impulsively to the dignified man that accompanied her. “I expect you had the biggest shock of your life this morning—when you heard the news—didn’t you?”
Bannister smiled gravely as the escort announced them. “I certainly sat up and took notice—and I’m still attempting to puzzle things out. Sir Austin Kemble—the Chief Commissioner—he’s had a ‘pow-wow’ with me early this morning—and taking into account the particular details that he arranged—well—your ‘resurrection’ fairly mystifies me.”
The Crown Prince himself opened the door that admitted them, with a gesture that bordered on the imperious. He raised his eyes inquiringly as he observed the lady’s companion. “This gentleman?” he queried.
Daphne was quick to bridge the situation with an immediate introduction. “Is the celebrated Chief-Inspector Bannister of Scotland Yard,” she declared. “He is the gentleman in charge of this terrible business and when he heard that I wasn’t dead—he arranged for me to come down to Seabourne again and to meet me at the station. I know it sounds awfully mixed up,” she concluded with a little moue, “but you know what I mean.”
Bannister bowed. It was a situation in which he felt adequately ‘at home.’ “Sir Austin Kemble ’phoned me this morning, Your Royal Highness, as I expect you are well aware. Therefore I was not surprised when Miss Carruthers expressed her desire to have an interview with you before coming along to the Police Station with me.”
The Crown Prince looked unhappy and a trifle apprehensive.
“Strangely enough,” proceeded Bannister, “I’ve also been, as it were, roped into the case. I’ve been staying here—at the ‘Cassandra’ for over a week—Your Highness possibly—” His eyes for the first time travelled the length of the room and caught sight of the tall figure reclining negligently in the arm-chair. His Royal Highness, eagerly seizing any favourable opportunity to closure any discussion upon his own personal sojourn at the “Cassandra,” produced Mr. Bathurst from the depths of the chair and introduced him, regardless of etiquette. It was easy for an onlooker to observe that he found more favour in Daphne’s sight than in
