The Lady in the Car. Le Queux William

owns the gold-mines in Nevada – worth ten million dollars. Last year he gave half a million dollars to charity, and bought the Bourbon pearls for his wife. Gave eighty thousand pounds for them. She’s got them here, a long string twice round her neck and reaches to her waist. She’s wearing them to-day, and everybody, of course, thinks they’re false.”

      “How foolish these American women are! Fancy wearing pearls of that price in the open street! Why, she might easily be robbed,” his master remarked.

      “But who’d believe they’re genuine? They’re too big to take a thiefs fancy,” replied the faithful Charles. “The Jesups seem fond of jewellery. Miss Mary has a lovely diamond necklet – ”

      “And wore it last night, I suppose?”

      “Of course. They are newly-rich people, and crowd it all on. Yet, what does it matter? Men like Jesup can easily buy more if they lose it. Why, to have her jewels stolen is only a big advertisement for the American woman. Haven’t you seen cases in the paper – mostly at Newport they seem to occur.”

      “The girl is pretty – distinctly pretty, Charles,” remarked the Prince slowly, with a philosophic air.

      “Yes, your Highness. And she’d esteem it a great honour if you spoke to her, I’m sure.”

      Prince Albert pursed his lips.

      “I think not. These American girls have a good deal of spirit. She’d most probably snub me.”

      “I think not. I passed through the hall five minutes ago, and she was looking you up in the ‘Almanach de Gotha.’”

      His Highness started.

      “Was she?” he cried with quick interest. “Then she evidently knows all about me by this time! I wonder – ” and he paused without concluding his sentence.

      Charles saw that his master was thinking deeply, so he busied himself by putting some papers in order.

      “She’s uncommonly pretty,” his Highness declared presently. “But dare I speak to her, Charles? You know what these Americans are.”

      “By all means speak to her. The mother and daughter would be company for you for a few days. You could invite them to go motoring, and they’d no doubt accept,” the man suggested.

      “I don’t want the same experience that we had in Vichy, you know.”

      “Oh, never fear. These people are quite possible. Their wealth hasn’t spoilt them – as far as I can hear.”

      “Very well, Charles.” The Prince laughed, tossing his cigarette-end into the grate, and rising. “I’ll make some excuse to speak with them.”

      And Charles, on his part, entertained shrewd suspicions that his master, confirmed bachelor that he was, had, at last, been attracted by a girl’s fresh, fair beauty, and that girl an American.

      Time hung heavily upon the Prince’s hands. That afternoon he ran over in his car to Worthing, where he dined at Warne’s, and the evening he spent in lonely state in a box at the Brighton Alhambra. Truth to tell, he found himself thinking always of the sweet-faced, rather saucy American girl, whose waist was so neat, whose tiny shoes were so pointed, and whose fair hair was always drawn straight back from her intelligent brow.

      Yes. He felt he must know her. The morrow came, and with it an opportunity occurred to speak with her mother.

      They were sitting, as it is usual to sit, at the door of the hotel, when a mishap to a dog-cart driven by a well-known actress gave him the desired opportunity, and ten minutes later he had the satisfaction of bowing before Mary Jesup herself.

      He strolled with them on to the Pier, chatting so very affably that both mother and daughter could hardly believe that he was the cousin of an Emperor. Then, at his request to be allowed to join them at their table at luncheon, they had their midday meal together.

      The girl in white was altogether charming, and so unlike the milk-and-water misses of Germany, or the shy, dark-eyed minxes of France or Italy, so many of whom had designed to become Princess of Hesse-Holstein. Her frank open manner, her slight American twang, and her Americanisms he found all delightful. Mrs Jesup, too, was a sensible woman, although this being the first occasion that either mother or daughter had even met a prince, they used “Your Highness” a trifle too frequently.

      Nevertheless, he found this companionship of both women most charming.

      “What a splendid motor-car you have!” Mary remarked when, after luncheon, they were taking their coffee in the Palm Court at the back of the hotel.

      “I’m very fond of motoring, Miss Jesup. Are you?” was his Highness’s reply.

      “I love it. Poppa’s got a car. We brought it over with us and ran around France in it. We left it in Paris till we get back to the Continent in the fall. Then we do Italy,” she said.

      “Perhaps you would like to have a run with me and your mother to-morrow,” the Prince suggested. “It’s quite pretty about the neighbourhood.”

      “I’m sure you’re very kind, Prince,” responded the elder woman. “We should be charmed. And further, I guess my husband’ll be most delighted to meet you when he gets down here. He’s been in Germany a lot.”

      “I shall be very pleased to meet Mr Jesup,” the young patrician responded. “Till he comes, there’s no reason why we should not have a few runs – that is, if you’re agreeable.”

      “Oh! it’ll be real lovely!” declared Mary, her pretty face brightening in anticipation of the pleasure of motoring with the man she so admired.

      “Then what about running over to Eastbourne to tea to-day?” he suggested.

      Mother and daughter exchanged glances. “Well,” replied Mrs Jesup, “we don’t wish to put you out in the least, Prince. I’m sure – ”

      “Good! You’ll both come. I’ll order the car for three o’clock.”

      The Prince ascended the stairs much gratified. He had made a very creditable commencement. The hundred or so of other girls of various nations who had been presented to him with matrimonial intent could not compare with her, either for beauty, for charm, or for intelligence.

      It was a pity, he reflected, that she was not of royal, or even noble birth.

      Charles helped him on with a light motor-coat, and, as he did so, asked:

      “If the Parson calls, what am I to say?”

      “Say what you like, only send him back to London. Tell him he is better off in Bayswater than in Brighton. He’ll understand.”

      “He may want some money. He wrote to you yesterday, remember.”

      “Then give him fifty pounds, and tell him that when I want to see him I’ll wire. I want to be alone just now, Charles,” he added a trifle impatiently. “You’ve got the key of my despatch-box, eh?”

      “Yes, your Highness.”

      Below, he found the big cream-coloured car in waiting. Some of the guests were admiring it, for it had an extra long wheelbase and a big touring body and hood – a car that was the last word in all that was comfort in automobilism.

      The English chauffeur, Garrett, in drab livery faced with scarlet, and with the princely cipher and crown upon his buttons, raised his hat on the appearance of his master. And again when a moment later the two ladies, in smart motor-coats, white caps, and champagne-coloured veils, emerged and entered the car, being covered carefully by the fine otter-skin rug.

      The bystanders at the door of the hotel regarded mother and daughter with envy, especially when the Prince got in at the girl’s side, and, with a light laugh, gave the order to start.

      A few moments later they were gliding along the King’s Road eastward, in the direction of Lewes and Eastbourne.

      “You motor a great deal, I suppose?” she asked him, as they turned the corner by the Aquarium.

      “A good deal. It helps to pass the time