And the man addressed soon afterwards withdrew.

The events of the next two days showed plainly that the original plans formulated by the Rev Thomas Clayton had been abandoned.

The widow, with some trepidation, invited the Prince and his clerical friend to be her guests at Milnthorpe, but they made excuses, much to her chagrin. The exemplary vicar was compelled to return to his Bayswater parish, while the Prince was also recalled to London to race at Brooklands, making the journey, of course, on the car.

Thus Mrs Edmondson found herself left alone in the "Majestic," with her fellow guests full of wonder at what had really occurred.

The widow, however, had been buoyed up by a few whispered words of the Prince at the moment of his departure.

"Preserve my secret as you promised, Mrs Edmondson, and come to London one day next week. You always go to the Langham--you say. I'll call on you there next Friday. _Au revoir_!"

And he lifted his cap, shook her hand, and mounted at the wheel of the big mustard-coloured "racer."

On the day appointed he called at the Langham and found her installed in one of the best suites, prepared to receive him.

He told her that, on the morrow at noon, he was to race at Brooklands against Carlier, the well-known Frenchman, both cars being of the same horse-power. The distance was one hundred miles.

She was delighted, and promised to observe every secrecy, and come down to witness the struggle. He remained to tea, chatting with her pleasantly. When he rose and bade her adieu, she sat alone for a long time thinking.

Was she dreaming? Or was it really a fact that he, Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, had, for a few moments, held her hand tenderly? The difference of their ages was not so much, she argued--about twelve years. She was twelve years older. What did that matter, after all?

If she, plain Mrs Edmondson, of Milnthorpe, became Princess Albert of Hesse-Holstein! Phew! The very thought of it took her breath away.

She was a clever scheming woman, and had always been, ever since her school-girl days. She flattered herself that she could read the innermost secrets of a man's heart.

Yes. She was now convinced. This man, who had reposed confidence in her and told her of his dual personality, was actually in love with her.

If he did not marry her, it certainly should not be her fault.

With that decision she called Marie, her French maid, and pa.s.sed into her room to dress for dinner with her sister-in-law and her husband--a barrister--with the theatre and Savoy to follow.

Next day at noon she was down at Brooklands, where a number of motor enthusiasts and men "in the trade" had a.s.sembled. She saw a tall, slim figure in grey overalls and an ugly helmet-shaped cap with dark gla.s.ses in the eye-holes, mount upon a long grey car, while a mechanic in blue cotton and a short jacket b.u.t.toned tightly, gave a last look round to see that all was working properly. The man mounted the step, the signal was given by the starters, and the two cars, pitted against each other, both grey, with huge numbers painted on the front of their bonnets, came past her like a flash, while the mechanics swung themselves half out, in order to balance the cars as they went round the bend.

After the first two or three laps the pace became terrific, and as the widow sat watching, she saw the Prince _incognito_, his head bent to the wind, a slim, crouched figure at the wheel driving the long car at a pace which no express train could travel.

At first he slowly forged ahead, but presently, after twenty minutes, the Frenchman gradually crept up, inch by inch. It was the test of the two cars--a comparatively new English make against a French firm.

d.i.c.k Drummond had many friends on the course. He was popular everywhere, and at regular intervals as he pa.s.sed the stand where the widow was seated, a crowd of young, smart, clean-shaven men shouted to his encouragement.

Each time, with slight dust flying behind, he went round the bend, Garrett, in his dirty blue clothes, swung himself out to balance the car, while to the Prince himself all has become a blur. Travelling at that terrific pace, the slightest swerve would mean a terrible accident, therefore, he had no eyes save for the track before him. Garrett was busy every moment with the lubrication, and at the same time both feared tyre-troubles, the bugbear of the racing motorist. Such speed sets up tremendous friction and consequent heat, therefore tyre-bursts are likely, and if a tyre does "go off" while a car is travelling at that pace, the consequences may be very serious.

Many a bad accident had occurred on that track, and more than one good man had lost his life. Yet the Prince, sportsman that he was, knowing that the widow's eyes were upon him, set his teeth hard and drove until once again he gradually drew away from his opponent, the renowned Carlier.

There were present representatives of the daily and the motor press.

The race would be chronicled everywhere on the morrow. If the Frenchman won, it would be an advertis.e.m.e.nt worth many thousands of pounds to the firm for whom he was driving.

To-day every maker of motor-cars vies with his compet.i.tors, and strives strenuously to obtain the greatest advertis.e.m.e.nt. Like so many other things about us, alas! it is not the quality of the car, or of the materials used, but a car's excellence seems to be judged by its popularity. And that popularity is a mere matter of advertis.e.m.e.nt.

The best car ever turned out by the hand of man would never be looked at if not advertised and "boomed."

The French driver, a man who had won a dozen races, including the Circuit of the Ardennes, and the Florio Cup, was trying to get an advertis.e.m.e.nt for the particular company for whom he was the professional racer, while d.i.c.k Drummond was merely trying his English car against the Paris-built variety.

The whirr-r was constant, now approaching and now receding, as the two cars went round and round the track with monotonous regularity.

Experts, men interested in various makes, stood leaning over the rails making comment.

It was agreed on every hand that Drummond was a marvel of cool level-headedness. His driving was magnificent, and yet he had apparently nothing to gain, even if he won the race. He was not financially interested, as far as was known, in the make of car he drove. He was merely a man of means, who had taken up motor-car racing as a hobby.

The Frenchman drove well, and the race, after the first three-quarters of an hour, was a keenly contested one. First Drummond would lead, and then Carlier. Once Drummond spurted and got half a lap ahead, then with the Frenchman putting on speed, he fell behind again till they were once more neck and neck.

Time after time they shot past the widow, who had eyes only for her champion. Her blue sunshade was up, and as she stood there alone she hoped against hope that the Prince--the man who had told her his secret--would prove the victor.

When he was in front, loud shouts rent the air from the men interested in the make of car he was driving, while, on the other hand, if the Frenchman gained the vantage the applause from his partisans was vociferous.

Over all was a cloud of light dust, while the wind created by the cars as they rushed past fanned the cheeks of the woman watching her champion with such deep interest.

A group of men near her were discussing him.

"Drummond is a magnificent driver," one remarked in admiration. "Look at him coming up now. Cagno never drove like that, even in his very best race."

"I wonder what interest he has in the Company? He surely wouldn't race for the mere excitement," remarked another.

"Interest!" cried a third man--and, truth to tell, he was Max Mason--"Why he has the option to buy up the whole of the concern, lock, stock, and barrel. I heard so yesterday. The company gave it to him a fortnight ago. Lawrence, the secretary, told me so. Why, by Jove! if he wins, the fortune of that make of car is secured. I suppose he has capital behind him, and will buy up the whole concern. I only wish I were in it. A tenth share would be a fortune."

"You're right," remarked the first man. "d.i.c.k Drummond is a shrewd chap. If he wins he'll make a pot of money on the deal--you see. It'll be the biggest advertis.e.m.e.nt that a car has ever had in all the whole annals of motoring."

Mrs Edmondson listened to all this in silence. She quite understood.

The Prince, in his character of d.i.c.k Drummond, had entered into the affair with a view to a big financial deal--the purchase of the important company who were responsible for the car he was driving.

The car in question, be it said, was the actual mustard-coloured one in which she had careered about the West Riding, although she did not recognise it in its garb of dirty slate-grey.

She found it quite fascinating, standing there watching those two cars with their powerful roaring engines striving for the mastery, as mile after mile was covered at that frightful break-neck speed. Her heart was with the man bent over his wheel, whom every one believed to be a commoner, and whom she alone knew to be a prince.

And he, the cousin of the Kaiser, had actually squeezed her hand!

As the end of the race approached the excitement increased. The onlookers grouped themselves in little knots, watching critically for any sign of weakness in one or the other. But there was none. Carlier was as dogged as his opponent, and kept steadily on until at the eightieth mile he gradually overhauled the Englishman.

There were still twenty miles to cover. But d.i.c.k Drummond was behind, quite an eighth of a lap. Carlier had apparently been husbanding all his strength and power. The car he was driving was certainly a splendid one, and was behaving magnificently. Would it beat the English make?

As the last few laps were negotiated at a frightful speed the knots of onlookers became more and more enthusiastic. Some cheered d.i.c.k until they were hoa.r.s.e, while others, with an interest in the car Carlier was driving, cried "Bravo! Bravo!"

The blood ran quickly in the widow's veins. Ninety-five miles had been covered, and still Drummond was behind more than half a lap. She watched his crouching figure, with head set forward, his position never altering, his chin upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the track before him. Garrett seemed ever at work, touching this and that at the order of his master, whose face was wholly protected from the cutting wind by the ugly mask, save mouth and chin.

As the board showed ninety-seven miles he came at a fearful pace past the spot where Mrs Edmondson had again risen from her seat in her excitement. He was spurting, and so valiantly did he struggle, getting every ounce out of the hundred horse-power of his car, that he slowly, very slowly, crept towards the flying Frenchman.

"Keep on, Drummond!" shrieked the men, taking off their caps and waving them. "Don't be beaten, old man!"

But he could not hear them above the terrible roar of his exhaust. No express train ever designed had run so quickly as he was now travelling.

Official timekeepers were standing, chronometers in hand, calmly watching, and judges were making ready to declare the winner.