"Oh, yes. He gives me most liberal donations," answered Clayton in a low tone of confidence. "But he always prefers to remain anonymous, of course. He has been my best friend for years. I had no idea he was in England. He wrote me last from Aix."

But the widow's brain was already active. Though possessing a deep religious feeling, and subscribing liberally to all sorts of charities just as her late husband had done, she was nevertheless a sn.o.b, and was already wondering whether, with the a.s.sistance of the pleasant-faced cleric, she could not induce the Prince to be her guest at Milnthorpe.

She knew that his presence there would give to her house a _cachet_ which had always been lacking, and would raise her social position in the select county of Yorks a hundred per cent.

"Most delightful man!" she repeated as they went forth into the grounds.

"I hope I shall have the pleasure of a long chat with him."

"Oh, that won't be very difficult, my dear Mrs Edmondson," her companion replied. "Any one introduced by me will, I feel a.s.sured, be received most cordially by him. He does me the honour of reposing the most implicit trust in myself."

"A trust which certainly is not misplaced," declared the stout widow in her self-satisfied way, as she strutted along in a new grey cotton gown of latest _mode_, a large hat to match, a big golden chatelaine at her side, and a blue silk sunshade.

"You are very flattering," replied Clayton. "I--I fear I do not deserve such kind words, I only do my duty to my bishop and my parish, and prosecute the line of life which Providence has laid out for me."

"There are clergymen--and clergymen," the woman said with affected wisdom. "I have known more than one who has been utterly worthless. It is, therefore, very gratifying to meet a man with such a high mind, and such a keen sense of responsibility towards his poor backsliding fellow creatures as yourself."

He was silent, for he was biting his nether lip. What would this estimable widow think if she knew the truth that he had no parish, no wife, no little children, and that he had no right to the sombre garb of religion in which he stood before her?

A moment later he succeeded in changing the subject.

The Prince lunched alone in his private room, as he always did in hotels in order to impress both management and guests. It was another habit of his, in order to cause servants to talk, to have a big bottle of eau de Cologne placed in his bath each morning. The chatter of servants as to his generosity, and his careless extravagance, was often most useful to him. While the Parson was always parsimonious--which, by the way, was rather belied by his rubicund complexion--the Prince was ever open-handed.

The good-looking, well-dressed young man's slight foreign accent entirely disappeared whenever he became Tremlett or Lord Na.s.sington, or Drummond, or any other imaginary person whose ident.i.ty he from time to time a.s.sumed. At present, however, he spoke with just sufficient error of grammar and speech to betray his foreign birth, and as he rose, and stood looking out of the window he presented, in his cool, grey flannels, the ideal young foreign prince of English tastes and English education.

Already in the reading-room below, the "Almanach de Gotha" had been handled a dozen times by inquisitive half-pay colonels, and mothers with marriageable daughters. And what had been found printed there had caused a flutter in many hearts.

The Prince's audacity was superb. The suspicion of any little _coup_ he made as prince he always managed to wriggle out of. Even though some evil-disposed persons had made ugly allegations against him at times, yet they were not believed. He was a prince and wealthy, therefore what motive had he to descend to the level of a thief? The Parson, too, always managed to evade suspicion. His voice, his manner, and his general get-up were perfect.

Those who had visited his house in Bayswater, not far from Queen's Road station, had found it to be the ideal and complete clergyman's home, with study and half-written sermons on the writing-table.

Their victims, indeed, were as puzzled as were the police. The Prince's magnificent impertinence and amazing boldness carried him through it all. He was a fatalist. If he and his friends Clayton, Garrett, and Mason were ever caught--well it would be just Fate. Till they actually fell into the hands of the police they would have a good time, and act fearlessly.

As he stood at the window, with the eternal Russian cigarette between his lips, gazing thoughtfully out upon the garden below, the door opened and the Parson entered.

"Well, Tommy, old chap!" exclaimed his Highness, when in a few moments the two men were lounging in easy-chairs opposite each other. "Now, tell me all about the old girl," he said laughing. "She walks like a pea-hen."

"There's not much more to tell than what you already know," responded the Parson, "except that she's all in a flutter at meeting you, and wants to chat with you again."

"Have you made any inquiries concerning her?"

"Of course. A week ago I ran over in secret to Milnthorpe Hall. Fine place, big park, large staff of servants, butler an Italian. Husband was partner in a firm of shipbuilders at Barrow, and left nearly a million to his wife. One son recently pa.s.sed into the Army, and just now stationed in Cawnpore. Rather rackety, his mother says. The old woman dotes on parsons."

"And quite gone on you--eh?" Clayton laughed.

"She gave me a cheque for fifty pounds for my Children's Holiday Fund last week," he said. "She's promised to come down and go round my parish one day, soon." His Highness smiled knowingly.

"Is her place far from Whitby?" he inquired, between whiffs of his cigarette.

"About four miles, on the high road just past a place called Swarthoe Cross. Grosmount station, on the Pickering line is nearest."

"The old girl, as far as I've been able to observe, is a purse-proud old crow," his Highness remarked.

"Rather. Likes her name to figure in subscription lists. The old man built and endowed some almshouses in Whitby, and offered twenty thousand to his Party for a knighthood, but was refused. It's a sore point, for she badly wanted to be Lady Edmondson."

"How long since the dear one departed?"

"Two years."

"And she's looking for a second, I suppose?"

"That's my belief."

"I wonder if she'd be attracted by the t.i.tle of princess?" he laughed.

"Why, the very suggestion would take the silly old woman's breath away,"

declared the Reverend Thomas.

"Well, if she's so confoundedly generous, what is to prevent us from benefiting a bit? We sadly need it, Tommy," the Prince declared. "I had a letter from Max the day before yesterday. He wants fifty wired without fail to the Poste Restante at Copenhagen. He's lying low there, just now."

"And one of the best places in Europe," the Parson exclaimed. "It's most snug at the `Angleterre,' or at the `Bristol.' I put in six months there once. Stockholm is another good spot. I was all one summer at that little hotel out at Salsjobaden, and had quite a good time. I pa.s.sed as an American and n.o.body recognised me, though my description had been circulated all over Europe. The Swedish and Danish police are a muddle-headed lot--fortunately for fellows like ourselves who want to lie undisturbed. Have you sent Max the money?"

"I wired twenty-five this morning, and promised the balance in seven days," responded his Highness, lighting a fresh cigarette with his half-consumed one. He always smoked in the Russian style, flinging away the end when only half finished.

Of the proceeds of the various _coups_ made, his Highness took one-third, with one-third to Clayton, who was a schemer almost as ingenious as the Prince himself, and the remaining third was divided between Max Mason, Charles, and Garrett, the chauffeur.

The pair of conspirators spent the greater part of the afternoon together in exchanging confidences and arranging plans. Then his Highness rang for Garrett, and ordered him to bring round the car at five o'clock.

The Parson descended to the hall below, being followed ten minutes later by his Highness. The latter found his friend lounging picturesquely with the fascinated widow, and joined them at tea, greatly to the gratification of the "pompous old crow," as Prince Albert had designated her half an hour before.

As they finished the tea and m.u.f.fins, the big yellow racing-car drew slowly up to the door, and on seeing it the widow began to discuss motors and motoring.

"I have a car at home--a sixty-Mercedes--and I'm awfully fond of a run in it," she told the Prince. "One gets about so quickly, and sees so much of the country. My poor husband hated them, so I never rode in one until after his death."

"The car I have with me is a racer, as you see," remarked his Highness.

"It's a hundred horse-power, and made a record on the Brooklands track just before I bought her. If you were not of the feminine s.e.x, Mrs Edmondson, I'd invite you to go for a run with me," he laughed. "It's rather unsociable, for it's only a two-seater, with Garrett on the step."

"I'd love to go for a run," she declared. "It--well it really wouldn't be too great a breach of the convenances for a woman to go out on a racing-car, would it?"

"I don't think so, Mrs Edmondson," remarked the Reverend Thomas, in his most cultivated clerical drawl. "But I would wrap up well, for the Prince travels very fast on a clear road."

So "the old crow" decided to accept his Highness's invitation, and ascended to put on her brown motor-cap and veil and a thick coat against the chill, evening winds.

TWO.

A quarter of an hour later, with Garrett--in his grey and red livery-- seated on the step, and the widow up beside him, the Prince drew the great ugly yellow car out of the hotel entrance, while the Parson, standing amid the crowd of jealous onlookers, waved his hand in merry farewell.

In a few moments the siren screamed, and the open exhaust roared and spluttered as they crossed the Stray, taking the road through Starbeck to Knaresborough, thence south by Little Ribston to Wetherby.

Having turned off to the left through the town, they came upon a straight open road where, for the first time his Highness, accustomed as he was to all the vagaries of his powerful car, put on a "move" over the ten miles into York, a run at such a pace that the widow clung to her seat with both hands, almost breathless.