“He told me all about the letters,” said Virginia. “And I feel almost ashamed not to have been in real trouble over them when he was such a knight-errant.”
“If I’d known what you were like,” said Jimmy gallantly, “I’d not have given him the letters. I’d have brought them to you myself. Say, young man, is the fun really over? Is there nothing for me to do?”
“By Jove,” said Anthony, “there is! Wait a minute.”
He disappeared into the house. In a minute or two he returned with a paper package which he cast into Jimmy’s arms.
“Go round to the garage and help yourself to a likely looking car. Beat it to London and deliver that parcel at 17, Everdean Square. That’s Mr. Balderson’s private address. In exchange he’ll hand you a thousand pounds.”
“What? It’s not the memoirs? I understood that they’d been burnt.”
“What do you take me for?” demanded Anthony. “You don’t think I’d fall for a story like that, do you? I rang up the publishers at once, found out that the other was a fake call, and arranged accordingly. I made up a dummy package as I’d been directed to do. But I put the real package in the Manager’s safe and handed over the dummy. The memoirs have never been out of my possession.”
“Bully for you, my son,” said Jimmy.
“Oh, Anthony,” cried Virginia. “You’re not going to let them be published?”
“I can’t help myself. I can’t let a pal like Jimmy down. But you needn’t worry. I’ve had time to wade through them, and I see now why people always hint that bigwigs don’t write their own reminiscences but hire someone to do it for them. As a writer, Stylptitch is an insufferable bore. He proses on about statecraft, and doesn’t go in for any racy and indiscreet anecdotes. His ruling passion of secrecy held strong to the end. There’s not a word in the memoirs from beginning to end to flutter the susceptibilities of the most difficult politician. I rang up Balderson today, and arranged with him that I’d deliver the manuscript tonight before midnight. But Jimmy can do his own dirty work now that’s he’s here.”
“I’m off,” said Jimmy. “I like the idea of that thousand pounds—especially when I’d made up my mind I was down and out.”
“Half a second,” said Anthony. “I’ve got a confession to make to you, Virginia. Something that everyone else knows, but that I haven’t yet told you.”
“I don’t mind how many strange women you’ve loved so long as you don’t tell me about them.”
“Women!” said Anthony, with a virtuous air. “Women indeed? You ask James here what kind of women I was going about with last time he saw me.”
“Frumps,” said Jimmy solemnly. “Utter frumps. Not one a day under forty-five.”
“Thank you, Jimmy,” said Anthony, “you’re a true friend. No, it’s much worse than that. I’ve deceived you as to my real name.”
“Is it very dreadful?” said Virginia, with interest. “It isn’t something silly like Pobbles, is it? Fancy being called Mrs. Pobbles.”
“You are always thinking the worst of me.”
“I admit that I did once think you were King Victor, but only for about a minute and a half.”
“By the way, Jimmy, I’ve got a job for you—gold prospecting in the rocky fastnesses of Herzoslovakia.”
“Is there gold there?” asked Jimmy eagerly.
“Sure to be,” said Anthony. “It’s a wonderful country.”
“So you’re taking my advice and going there?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “Your advice was worth more than you knew. Now for the confession. I wasn’t changed at nurse, or anything romantic like that, but nevertheless I am really Prince Nicholas Obolovitch of Herzoslovakia.”
“Oh, Anthony,” cried Virginia. “How perfectly screaming! And I have married you! What are we going to do about it?”
“We’ll go to Herzoslovakia and pretend to be kings and queens. Jimmy McGrath once said that the average life of a king or queen out there is under four years. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Mind?” cried Virginia. “I shall love it!”
“Isn’t she great?” murmured Jimmy.
Then, discreetly, he faded into the night. A few minutes later the sound of a car was heard.
“Nothing like letting a man do his own dirty work,” said Anthony, with satisfaction. “Besides, I didn’t know how else to get rid of him. Since we were married I’ve not had one minute alone with you.”
“We’ll have a lot of fun,” said Virginia. “Teaching the brigands not to be brigands, and the assassins not to assassinate, and generally improving the moral tone of the country.”
“I like to hear these pure ideals,” said Anthony. “It makes me feel my sacrifice has not been in vain.”
“Rot,” said Virginia calmly, “you’ll enjoy being a king. It’s in your blood, you know. You were brought up to the trade of royalty, and you’ve got a natural aptitude for it, just like plumbers have a natural bent for plumbing.”
“I never think they have,” said Anthony. “But damn it all, don’t let’s waste time talking about plumbers. Do you know that at this very minute I’m supposed to be deep in conference with Isaacstein and old Lollipop? They want to talk about oil. Oil, my God! They can just await my kingly pleasure. Virginia, do you remember my telling you once that I’d have a damned good try to make you care for me.”
“I remember,” said Virginia softly. “But Superintendent Battle was looking out of the window.”
“Well, he isn’t now,” said Anthony.
He caught her suddenly to him, kissing her eyelids, her lips, the green gold of her hair. …
“I do love you so, Virginia,” he whispered. “I do love you so. Do you love me?”
He looked down at her—sure of the answer.
Her head rested against his shoulder, and very low, in a sweet shaken voice, she answered:
“Not a bit!”
“You little devil,” cried Anthony, kissing her again. “Now I know for certain that I shall love you until I die. …”
