“It may—very possibly,” came the answer. “On the other hand it may be merely a coincidence. I visited many more places with the lady than Westhampton—as I stated, I have only been in that particular place once.”
“You may be right, of course,” conceded Anthony. “Where was the photograph taken?”
“At Seabourne—last summer.”
“By—?”
“A gentleman who was staying in the same hotel. With my own camera. He obliged me by taking it. It was a wish of the lady.”
“Can you recollect this gentleman’s name?”
The Crown Prince of Clorania frowned as though he found the questions distasteful and disconcerting.
“I think it was a Captain Willoughby. I’m not altogether sure. Naturally I wasn’t taking a prominent part in the social life of the hotel at the time.”
“What was the name of the Hotel?”
“The Cassandra.”
“Your Highness still desires to keep the identity of the lady a secret?”
“I have no option.”
“Very well,” said Anthony. “Leave these letters with me and I will do my best for you. Firstly, however, will you permit me to make a suggestion?”
“Yes, certainly!”
“Set a trap for your unknown correspondent. Lure him into it—then leave him to the tender mercies of Scotland Yard.”
The Crown Prince shook his head. “I’ve thought of that, but I fear the consequences. Some of the story would be certain to become public. I cannot afford it to. I must avoid that at all costs.”
“Pay the sum demanded, then,” ventured Anthony.
“Fifty thousand pounds?” exclaimed his client in amazement, anger conflicting with incredulity in his voice. “You must be unaware of my very limit resources. Comparatively speaking, Mr. Bathurst, I am a poor man.”
“You will give me ‘carte blanch’ naturally?” said Anthony.
“As long as you maintain the strictest secrecy—you may act in whatever way you choose. Personally, I shall let nothing stand in my way. And if you are successful—rest assured that your services will never be forgotten. I am a Vilnberg—we have long memories for those who serve us well. Only remember—time is getting short. December is not so very far ahead.”
He bowed, turned pompously and Anthony heard his decisive step descending the stairs.
Walking to the window, Bathurst watched the magnificently-liveried chauffeur open the door of the car—usher his master to his seat therein with perfect obsequiousness, then drive off quickly and almost noiselessly. With a semi-humorous shrug of the shoulders Anthony returned to his desk. Then he read through the five threatening letters again—with even more care and attention than before. After a little time thus expended, one fact began to stand out clearly from the correspondence and make a deep impression upon his mind. The threats contained in the letters were all indefinite—limited to the “telling of a story,” to “forwarding information of a most interesting and important nature,” “to acquainting a certain Royal lady with highly-important facts,” “to extending a circle of epistolary acquaintance.” He was unable to find any mention whatever of the possession for instance, of such a definite thing as a photograph—also there was no hint of the existence of compromising letters. “Seems to me,” muttered Anthony to himself, “that the strongest weapon this letter-writing gentleman possesses is the Crown Prince’s conscience—and he probably knows it.” He reached down for his A.B.C. and quickly flicked the pages for Westhampton. Then he turned back to Tranfield, which place he discovered was served at intervals by a local train service from Westhampton. “I can’t run down before next Friday,” he said to himself after consulting his diary, “it’s impossible for me to touch it till then.” He filled the bowl of his pipe and watched the flame of the match curl fiercely round the brown shreds of tobacco, “What happened exactly,” he asked himself, “at the Hunt Ball at Westhampton a year ago last February?”
Chapter III
Chief-Inspector Bannister gets a “Busman’s Holiday”
Although the “Big Six” of Scotland Yard are invested by an admiring public with superhuman powers, and attributes that border upon the magical, they are for all that, as human as that same circle of admirers. Which fact, doubtless, has brought comfort to the heart of many a hunted criminal when he has brought himself to realise it. In this relation, probably the most human of “the Six” was Chief Detective-Inspector Richard Bannister—known to his colleagues and to a host of friends as “Dandy Dick.” One of the most certain and regular indications of this humanity, to which allusion has just been made, is the desire at intervals, to rest from the exigencies of work and to take a holiday. At any rate, that was the particular trait that usually manifested itself in the case of Chief-Inspector Banister. Three years of strenuous activities had seen him bring during their passing at least half-a-dozen of the “Yard’s” biggest “cases” to successful and triumphant conclusions. On that account, therefore, he had no compunctions in taking a month’s vacation at Seabourne. The place had always attracted him exceedingly when he had been in a position to enjoy short stays there on previous occasions, and now on a much longer spell it seemed to possess for him an even greater measure of attraction. On the July evening in question he shifted his body to a more comfortable position in the deck-chair which he was occupying and lazily inclined his head to catch more clearly the strains of the Military Band playing in the band-stand on the magnificent promenade of which Seabourne is so justifiably proud. It was a perfect summer evening—the true fulfilment of a perfect summer day. A day of blue sky and majestic sun! The sea was beautifully calm and lapped the beach in a ceaseless creaming succession of lazy, indolent ripples, and now the stars were flashing into the nigh-sky one by one, as though they were tiny lights turned on by a giant hand. Bannister stretched his
