To the guests at Harrogate the Rev Thomas Clayton had told the usual tale which seems to be on the lips of every cleric, no matter how snug his living--that of the poor parish, universal suffering, hard work, small stipend, ailing wife and several small children. Indeed, he admitted to one or two of the religious old ladies whose acquaintance he had made, that some of his wealthier parishioners, owing to his nervous breakdown, had subscribed in order to send him there for a month's holiday.

Thus he had become indispensable to the tea-and-tattle circle, and the ladies soon began to refer to him as "that dear Mr Clayton." With one of them, a certain wealthy widow named Edmondson, he had become a particular favourite, a fact which he had communicated in a letter to the good-looking motorist now living at the pretty wayside inn in front of the lake on the Ripley Road.

While the Parson was enjoying a most decorous time with the philanthropic widow, d.i.c.k Drummond, as he soon became known, had cultivated popularity in the motor-world. To men in some walks of life, and especially to those on the crooked by-paths, popularity is a very dangerous thing. Indeed, as the Prince had on many occasions pointed out in confidence to me, his popularity greatly troubled him, making it daily more difficult for him to conceal his ident.i.ty.

At that moment, because he had lowered a record at Brooklands, he was living in daily terror of being photographed, and having his picture published in one or other of the ill.u.s.trated papers. If this did occur, then was it not more than likely that somebody would identify d.i.c.k Drummond the motorist, with the handsome Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein?

He led a life of ease and comfort in all else, save this constant dread of recognition, and was seriously contemplating a sudden trip across the Channel with a run through France and Germany when he one morning received a registered letter bearing the Harrogate postmark.

He read it through half a dozen times. Then he burned it.

Afterwards he lit a "Petroff" and went out for a stroll in the sunshine along the road towards Ripley village.

"It's really wonderful how clerical clothes and a drawling voice attract a woman. They become fascinated, just as they do when they meet a Prince. By Jove!" he laughed merrily to himself. "What fools some women--and men, too, for the matter of that--make of themselves! They never trouble to inst.i.tute inquiry, but accept you just at your own value. Take myself as an instance! In all these four years n.o.body has ever discovered that I'm not Prince Albert. n.o.body has taken the trouble to trace the real prince to his safe abode, the Sanatorium of Wismar. Yet the great difficulty is that I cannot always remain a prince."

Then he strode along for some time in thoughtful silence. In his well-cut blue serge suit and peaked motor-cap he presented the smart devil-may-care figure of a man who would attract most women. Indeed, he was essentially a ladies' man, but he always managed to turn his amorous adventures to monetary advantage.

Only once in his life had he been honestly in love. The tragic story of his romance in Florence I have already explained in a previous chapter.

His thoughts were always of his real princess--ever of her. She had been his ideal, and would always remain so. He had defended her good name, but dared not return to her and expose himself as a fraud and a criminal. Better by far for her to remain in ignorance of the truth; better that he should possess only sweet sad memories of her soft lips and tender hands.

As he walked, a young man pa.s.sed in a dirty white racing-car, on his way to Brooklands, and waved to him. It was George Hartwell, the holder of the one-mile record, and an intimate friend of his.

The Prince was debating within himself whether he should adopt the Parson's suggestion, abandon motor-racing for the nonce, and join him up in Yorkshire.

"I wonder whether the game's worth the candle?" he went on, speaking to himself after the cloud of dust has pa.s.sed. "If what Clayton says is true, then it's a good thing. The old woman is evidently gone on him.

I suppose he's told her the tale, and she believes he's a most sanctified person."

He halted at a gate near the entrance to Ripley village, and lighting another cigarette puffed vigorously at it.

"My hat!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed at last. "A real parson must have an exceedingly soft time of it--snug library, pretty girls in the choir, tea-fights, confidences, and all that kind of thing. In the country no home is complete without its tame curate." Then, after a long silence, he at length tossed away the end of his cigarette, and declared:

"Yes, I'll go. There'll be a bit of fun--if nothing else."

And he walked to the village telegraph office and wired one word to his bosom friend and ingenious accomplice. It was a word of their secret code--Formice--which Clayton would interpret as "All right. Shall be with you as soon as possible, and will carry out the suggestions made in your letter."

Then he walked back to the "Hut," where he found Garrett sitting out in that little front garden against the road, which is usually so crowded by motorists on warm Sunday afternoons.

"Better go and pack," he said sinking into a chair as his supposed servant rose and stood at attention. "We're going back to town in an hour."

Garrett, without asking questions, returned into the hotel. He saw by the Prince's sharp decided manner that something new was in the wind.

An hour later d.i.c.k Drummond motor-maniac, drew the car along the road towards Esher, and as he disappeared around the bend among the trees, he ceased to exist. Prince Albert became himself again.

Direct to Dover Street they went--and there found the discreet Charles awaiting them. Fresh kit was packed while Garrett, in a garage over in Westminster where he was unknown, was busily engaged in repainting the ugly racer with its big bonnet a bright yellow.

That evening the Prince spent alone in his pretty sitting-room consuming dozens of his pet Russian cigarettes, and thinking hard. For an hour he was busy upon some accounts written in German--accounts from a Jew dealer in precious stones in Amsterdam. The gentleman in question was a good customer of the Prince's, gave fair prices, and asked no questions.

His Highness seemed troubled about one item, for as he rested his brow upon his hand, still seated at his desk, he murmured in a low voice to himself:

"I'm sure the old Hebrew has done me out of four hundred and fifty!

Eighteen hundred was the price agreed for that carroty-headed woman's pendant. That's what comes of leaving business matters to Max." And sighing, he added: "I shall really have to attend to the sales myself, for no doubt we're swindled every time. The old Jew doesn't believe in honour among thieves, it seems!"

Some letters which had arrived during his absence were put before him by the valet, Charles. Among them were several invitations to the houses of people struggling to get into society--by the back door, and who wanted to include the name of Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein in the list of their guests.

"Are we likely to be away for long?" asked the valet, at the same time helping himself to a cigarette from his master's silver box.

"I haven't the slightest idea," laughed the good-looking young adventurer. "You'll go down to the `Majestic' at Harrogate by the first train in the morning and take the best suite for me. Garrett and I will arrive in the car. Of course you'll tell the usual story to the servants of my wealth, and all that."

"The Parson's down there, isn't he?"

"Yes, but you'll take no notice of him. Understand?"

So the smart young crook who posed as valet, having received his master's instructions, retired to pack his own clothes.

At ten next morning Garrett brought round the hundred "racer," now covered in yellow enamel and bearing a different identification-plate from that it had borne the previous day, and with the Prince up beside him wearing a light dust-coat and his peaked cap turned the wrong way, so as not to catch the wind, drew out into Piccadilly, and turned up Shaftesbury Avenue due northward.

Throughout that warm summer's day they tore along the Great North Road as far as Doncaster, wary always of the police-traps which abound there.

Then, after a light meal, they pushed on to Ferrybridge, taking the right-hand road through Micklefield to the cross-roads beyond Aberford, and then on the well-kept old Roman way which runs through Wetherby to Plampton Corner, and ascends the hill into Harrogate.

The last forty miles they did at tearing speed, the great powerful engine running like a clock, leaving a perfect wall of white dust behind. The car was a "flyer" in every sense of the word. The Prince had won the Heath Stakes at Brooklands, therefore, on an open road, without traffic or police-traps, they covered the last forty miles within the hour.

The sun had already sunk, and the crimson afterglow had spread before they reached the Stray, but as the car drew up before the great hotel, Charles, bareheaded and urbane, came forth to receive his master, while behind him stood the a.s.sistant manager and a couple of attendants also in bareheaded servitude.

Charles, who always acted as advance-agent had already created great excitement in the hotel by the announcement that his Highness was on his way. Quite a small crowd of visitors had concluded their dinner early, and a.s.sembled in the hall to catch first sight of the German princeling who preferred residence in England to that in his native princ.i.p.ality.

As he pa.s.sed across the great hall and entered the lift, dusty after his journey, his quick eyes caught sight of the sedate modest-looking parson seated away from the others, chatting with a rather buxom, florid-looking, red-necked woman of about fifty.

The Parson had his face purposely averted. At present he did not wish to claim acquaintance with the new-comer, whom he allowed to ascend to the fine suite of rooms reserved for him.

Next morning, as the Prince crossed the hall to go out for a stroll about the town he created quite a flutter in the hotel, especially among the female guests. The place was filled by summer holiday-makers from London, each of whom was eager to rub elbows with a real live Prince.

Indeed many were the flattering words whispered by pretty lips regarding his Highness's good looks and general bearing.

The worthy Bayswater vicar was chatting with Mrs Edmondson in his usual clerical drawl, when the Prince's sudden appearance caused him to look up. Then turning to her again, he exclaimed:

"Oh, here's Prince Albert! I knew him quite well when I was British chaplain in Hanover," and crossing to his Highness he shook hands heartily, adding in the next breath: "I wonder if your Highness would allow me to present to you my friend here, Mrs Edmondson?"

"Delighted, I'm sure," replied the younger man bowing before the rather stout, dark-haired lady, whose blatant pomposity crumpled up instantly, and who became red and white in turns.

The introduction had been effected so suddenly that the relict of Thomas Edmondson, Esquire, J.P., D.L., of Milnthorpe Hall, near Whitby, had been taken completely off her feet--or "off her perch," as the merry cleric afterwards jocosely put it. She knew Mr Clayton to be a most superior person, but had no idea of his intimate acquaintance with princes of the blood-royal.

She succeeded in stammering some conventional expressions of pleasure at being presented, and then lapsed into ignominious silence.

"Mrs Edmondson has kindly expressed herself very interested in my poor parish," explained the Parson, "just as your Highness has been interested. I wrote to you a month ago to Aix-les-Bains, thanking you for your generous donation towards our Children's Holiday Fund. It was really extremely kind of you."

"Oh, don't mention it, Mr Clayton," replied his Highness. "I've been in your parish twice, remember, and I know well how very hard you work, and what a number of the deserving poor you have. I'm just going down in the town for a stroll. Perhaps I'll see you after lunch? Come to my room for a smoke."

And then, bowing to the obese widow, he replaced his grey felt hat and strode out.

"What a very charming man!" declared the widow when she recovered herself sufficiently to speak. "So he has been to your parish!"