Anthony extended his hand for the letter in question. “Westhampton, post-mark,” he observed—scrutinising the somewhat blurred stamp on the envelope. His visitor nodded in agreement. Anthony took out the letter itself. It was undated and bore no address. He read it. The handwriting spoke of education and culture. “The disinclination of His Royal Highness to reply to the four letters that he had already received is neither to his credit nor will it be to his advantage. At this period of negotiations he should realise that the writer is not penning these communications simply ‘pour passer le temps‘. Unless the £50,000 already demanded is forthcoming by the 9th of next month the writer will be reluctantly compelled to add yet another Royal personage to his circle of epistolary acquaintance—the Princess Imogena of Natalia. But he assures His Royal Highness that the course of conduct thus indicated would occasion him extreme regret. His Royal Highness is fully aware that he is still allowed to choose his own method of transmitting the required sum—provided that such method is communicated to the writer through the ‘Agony Column’ of the ‘Times.’” Bathurst wrinkled his brows, “This doesn’t tell me all,” he exclaimed. “May I look at the first letter of the series?” He extended his hand. The Crown Prince looked through his packet of envelopes and handed over the required letter. “Tranfield postmark this time,” declared Anthony. “What date is this?” He looked at the post-mark carefully. “April twenty-third—‘Tranfield.’ Let me think for a moment—Tranfield is only a few miles from Westhampton, I fancy.”
“You are right, replied his Royal visitor, “nine—to be precise.”
The opening letter of the batch was much less shadowy—and far more to the point. “My dear Crown Prince,” it ran with cavalier camaraderie, “you are entering the matrimonial state next December. That is to say—perhaps—for ‘there’s many a slip!’ What would the Princess Imogena of Natalia say to a full story of your disgraceful ‘affaire’ of the last year or so with a certain lady, whose identity for the time being need not be disclosed. However, my gay and gallant lover, there is no especial need for uneasiness on your part. £50,000 will seal eternally my rosebud lips.” Similar directions to those in the letter that Anthony had just previously read were laid down concerning the transmission of the money. Bathurst looked at his client with judicial thoughtfulness.
“Far be it from me,” he murmured, “to trespass on Your Highness’s—shall we say—confidence”—he tapped the letter with his forefinger interrogatively… waiting quietly—yet with determination. Mr. Bathurst was nothing, if not delicate in affairs of this nature.
A dull red colour suffused the cheeks of the Crown Prince. “I am a man,” he declared with a touch of petulant anger in his tone, “who has always proved a strong and irresistible attraction to the opposite sex. But believe me, I am no Lothario. This incident—for I have no doubt in my mind that I know the ‘affaire’ to which reference is made here—was perhaps unfortunate but certainly cannot with truth be termed ‘disgraceful.’ The lady and I parted upon perfectly agreeable terms some months ago now and upon that happening I imagined that the incident was permanently closed. I trust that you will not find it necessary to ask the lady’s name. I am a man of honour.”
Anthony pulled at his lip. “Are there any—er—documentary indiscretions relative to the affair still in existence?”
The Prince moved uneasily in his chair. “The lady may have kept the letters,” he responded, “women are notoriously careless in these matters.”
“Anything else?” queried Anthony.
“There was a photograph,” replied His Highness lamely.
“Of you?”
“Of the two of us—taken together—unfortunately.”
“Dear me,” ventured Anthony, “how indiscreet of you—that does complicate matters, to be sure!” He held out his hand for the three remaining letters and read each one through with care. “These three bear the London post-mark, I notice,” he declared, “there’s nothing to help me much there, Your Highness! Westhampton and Tranfield as we agreed, are adjoining. It is quite feasible therefore that the starting-point of our investigation may lie in that district. Have you any reason to believe that this may be so? Possibly, if you are frank, you can help me.”
The visitor hesitated a moment or two before framing his reply. “Mr. Bathurst,” he declared, “I want you to ferret out this dirty blackmailer and put matters right for me. I realise therefore that it is incumbent upon me to be quite frank. In reply to your question then—as to whether I can help you. I have only been to Westhampton once in my life. That was a year ago last February. I attended the Hunt Ball there—but my incognito was strictly maintained. To Tranfield I have never been!”
Anthony went straight to the point. “Did the lady in question accompany you?”
“No,” replied the Crown Prince, “she did not, But I—” he stopped—seemingly at a momentary loss for words.
“Was she there?” asked Anthony, quick to seize the point. The Crown Prince
