She had never travelled half so fast before in all her life.

In York they ran round by the station past the old grey minster, then out again through Clifton, as far as Shipton Moor, turning up to Beningborough station, and thence into the by-roads to Newton-upon-Ouse, in the direction of Knaresborough.

Once or twice while they tore along regardless of speed-limits or of police-traps, the powerful engine throbbing before them, she turned to his Highness and tried to make some remarks. But it was only a sorry attempt. Travelling at fifty miles an hour over those white roads, without a gla.s.s screen, or even body to the car, was very exhilarating, and after the first few minutes of fright, at the tearing pace, she seemed to delight in it. Curious though it is, yet it is nevertheless a fact that women delight in a faster pace in a car than men, when once the first sensation of danger has pa.s.sed.

When they were safely back again in the hall of the hotel she turned to him to express her great delight at the run.

"Your car is, indeed, a magnificent one, your Highness. I've never been on a racer before," she said, "but it was truly delightful. I never had a moment's anxiety, for you are such a sure and clever driver."

Her eye had been from time to time upon the speedometer, and she had noted the terrific rate at which they had now and then travelled, especially upon any downward incline.

The Prince, on his part, was playing the exquisite courtier. Had she been a girl of twenty he could not have paid "old crow" more attention.

As he was dressing for dinner with the aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson entered, and to him he gave an accurate description of the run, and of the rather amorous att.i.tude the obese widow had a.s.sumed towards him.

"Good, my dear boy," exclaimed the urbane cleric, "I told you that she's the most perfect specimen of the sn.o.b we've ever met."

A week went by--a pleasant week, during which Mrs Edmondson, her nose now an inch higher in the air than formerly, went out daily with the Prince and his chauffeur for runs around the West Riding.

One afternoon they ran over to Ripon, and thence across to the fine old ruins of Fountains Abbey. Like many women of her cla.s.s and character, the buxom lady delighted in monastic ruins, and as the pair strolled about in the great, roofless transept of the Abbey she commenced an enthusiastic admiration of its architecture and dimensions. Though living at Whitby she had, curiously enough, never before visited the place.

"Crowland, in Lincolnshire is very fine," she remarked, "but this is far finer. Yet we have nothing in England to compare with Pavia, near Milan. Have you ever been there, Prince?"

"Only through the station," his Highness replied. Truth to tell he was not enthusiastic over ruins. He was a very modern up-to-date young man.

They idled through the ruins, where the sunshine slanted through the gaunt broken windows, and the cawing rooks flapped lazily in and out.

One or two other visitors were there besides themselves, and among them a lonely pale-faced man in grey, wearing gold pince-nez who, with hands behind his back, was studying the architecture and the various outbuildings.

The Prince and his companion brushed close by him in the old refectory, when he glanced up suddenly at a window.

His face was familiar enough to his Highness, who, however, pa.s.sed him by as a stranger.

It was Max Mason, only yesterday returned from Copenhagen.

That afternoon the widow grew confidential with her princely cavalier in motor clothes, while he, on his part, encouraged her.

"Ah!" he sighed presently as they were walking slowly together in a distant part of the great ruined fabric. "You have no idea how very lonely a man can really be, even though he may be born a prince. More often than not I'm compelled to live _incognito_, for I have ever upon me the fierce glare of publicity. Every movement, every acquaintance I make, even my most private affairs are pried into and chronicled by those confounded press fellows. And for that reason I'm often compelled to hold aloof from people with whom I could otherwise be on terms of intimate friendship. Half my time and ingenuity is spent upon the adoption of subterfuges to prevent people from discovering who I really am. And then those infernal ill.u.s.trated papers, both here and on the Continent, are eternally republishing my photograph."

"It really must be most annoying, Prince," remarked the widow sympathetically.

"I often adopt the name of Burch.e.l.l-Laing," he said, "and sometimes-- well," and he paused, looking her straight in the face. "I wonder, Mrs Edmondson, whether I might confide in you--I mean whether you would keep my secret?"

"I hope I may be permitted to call myself your Highness's friend," she said in a calm, impressive tone. "Whatever you may tell me will not, I a.s.sure you, pa.s.s my lips."

"I am delighted to have such a friend as yourself," he declared enthusiastically. "Somehow, though our acquaintanceship has been of such brief duration, yet I feel that your friendship is sincere, Mrs Edmondson."

By this speech the widow was intensely flattered. Her companion saw it in her countenance.

He did not allow her time to make any remark, but added: "My secret is-- well a rather curious one, perhaps--but the fact is that I have a dual personality. While being Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, I am also known as d.i.c.k Drummond, holder of two records on the Brooklands motor-track. In the motor-world I'm believed to be a young man of means, who devotes his time to motor-racing--a motor-maniac in fact."

The widow stared at him in blank astonishment.

"Are you really the Mr Drummond of whose wonderful feat I read of only the other day in the papers?"

"I won the race at Brooklands the other day," he said carelessly, "I won it with the car I have here now."

"And n.o.body suspects that this Mr Drummond is a prince!" she exclaimed.

"n.o.body. I could never afford to go racing in my own name. The Kaiser would not allow it, you know. I have to be so very careful."

"I quite understand that," remarked the widow. "But what an excellent motor-driver you must be! What a fine performance your record was!

Why, there was half a column in the _Morning Post_ about it!"

"It was not any more difficult, or more dangerous, than some of the long quick runs I've made on the Continent. From Rome up to Berlin, for instance, or from Warsaw to Ostend, I'm racing again at Brooklands next week."

"And may I come and see you?" she asked. "Do let me. I will, of course, keep your secret, and not tell a soul."

He hesitated.

"You see n.o.body knows but yourself and Garrett, my chauffeur--not even Clayton. He's a good fellow, but parsons," he laughed, "are bad hands at keeping secrets. Too much tea and gossip spoils them, I suppose."

"But I'll swear to remain secret. Only let me know the day and hour, and I'll go south and see you. I should love to see a motor-race. I've never seen one in my life."

So at last, with seeming reluctance, his Highness, having taken the flattered widow into his confidence, promised on condition that she said nothing to anybody, she should know the day and hour when to be at Brooklands.

As the warm summer days slipped by, it became more and more apparent to the Parson that his friend, the widow, had become entirely fascinated by the lighthearted easy-going prince. She, on her part, recognised how, because of her intimate acquaintance with his Highness, and the fact that he honoured her table with his presence sometimes at dinner, every one in the hotel courted her friendship in the hope that they might be introduced to the cousin of the Kaiser.

Prince and Parson were, truth to tell, playing a very big bluff. Max had taken up his quarters at the Spa Hydro, and though meeting his two accomplices frequently in the streets, pa.s.sed them by as strangers.

Now and then the Parson went up to smoke with the Prince after the wealthy widow had retired, and on such occasions the conversation was of such a character that, if she had overheard it, she would have been considerably surprised.

One evening, when they were together, the valet, Charles, entered, closing the door carefully after him.

"Well," asked his master, "what's the news?"

"I've just left Max down in the town," replied the clean-shaven servant.

"He got back from Milnthorpe Hall this morning. He went there as an electrical engineer, sent by Cameron Brothers, of London, at the old woman's request, and examined the whole place with a view to a lighting installation. He reports that, beyond a few good paintings--mostly family portraits of the original owners--and a little _bric-a-brac_, there's nothing worth having. The old woman keeps her jewels in the bank at York, as well as greater part of the plate. What's in general use is all electro. Besides, there are burglar-alarms all over the place."

"Then the old woman's a four-flush!" declared the Parson tossing away his cigarette angrily. "I thought she'd got some good stuff there.

That was my impression from the outside."

"Afraid of thieves, evidently," remarked the Prince. "She's a lone woman, and according to what you say, the only men in the house are the Italian butler, and a young footman."

"If there's nothing there, what's the use troubling over her further?"

His Highness puffed thoughtfully at his "Petroff." He was reflecting deeply, bitterly repenting that he had been such a fool as to tell her the truth regarding his motor-racing _nomade-guerre_. He could not afford to allow her to become his enemy. To abandon her at once would surely be a most injudicious action.

"At present let's postpone our decision, Tommy," he exclaimed at last.

"There may be a way to success yet. You, Charles, see Max to-morrow, and tell him to go to London and lie low there. I'll wire him when I want him. You have some money. Give him a tenner."