The Illustrious Prince. E. Phillips Oppenheim

said. “If he is, will you kindly ask him to step out and speak to me?”

      She returned to the cab and waited. In less than five minutes a tall, broad-shouldered young man, clean-shaven, and moving like an athlete, came briskly down the steps. He carried a soft hat in his hand, and directly he spoke his transatlantic origin was apparent.

      “Penelope!” he exclaimed. “Why, what on earth—”

      “My dear Dicky,” she interrupted, laughing at his expression, “you need not look so displeased with me. Of course, I know that I ought not to have come and sent a message into your club. I will admit at once that it was very forward of me. Perhaps when I have told you why I did so, you won’t look so shocked.”

      “I’m glad to see you, anyway,” he declared. “There’s no bad news, I hope?”

      “Nothing that concerns us particularly,” she answered. “I simply want to have a little talk with you. Come in here with me, please, at once. We can ride for a short distance anywhere.”

      “But I am just in the middle of a rubber of bridge,” he objected.

      “It can’t be helped,” she declared. “To tell you the truth, the matter I want to talk to you about is of more importance than any game of cards. Don’t be foolish, Dicky. You have your hat in your hand. Step in here by my side at once.”

      He looked a little bewildered, but he obeyed her, as most people did when she was in earnest. She gave the driver an address somewhere in the city. As soon as they were off, she turned towards him.

      “Dicky,” she said, “do you read the newspapers?”

      “Well, I can’t say that I do regularly,” he answered. “I read the New York Herald, but these London journals are a bit difficult, aren’t they? One has to dig the news out—sort of treasure-hunt all the time.”

      “You have read this murder case, at any rate,” she asked, “about the man who was killed in a special train between Liverpool and London?”

      “Of course,” he answered, with a sudden awakening of interest. “What about it?”

      “A good deal,” she answered slowly. “In the first place, the man who was murdered—Mr. Hamilton Fynes—comes from the village where I was brought up in Massachusetts, and I know more about him, I dare say, than any one else in this country. What I know isn’t very much, perhaps, but it’s interesting. I was to have lunched with him at the Carlton today; in fact, I went there expecting to do so, for I am like you—I scarcely ever look inside these English newspapers. Well, I went to the Carlton and waited and he did not come. At last I went into the office and asked whether he had arrived. Directly I mentioned his name, it was as though I had thrown a bomb shell into the place. The clerk called me on one side, took me into a private office, and showed me a newspaper. As soon as I had read the account, I was interviewed by an inspector from Scotland Yard. Ever since then I have been followed about by reporters.”

      The young man whistled softly.

      “Say, Penelope!” he exclaimed. “Who was this fellow, anyhow, and what were you doing lunching with him?”

      “That doesn’t matter,” she answered. “You don’t tell me all your secrets, Mr. Dicky Vanderpole, and it isn’t necessary for me to tell you all mine, even if we are both foreigners in a strange country. The poor fellow isn’t going to lunch with any one else in this world. I suppose you are thinking what an indiscreet person I am, as usual?”

      The young man considered the matter for a moment.

      “No,” he said; “I didn’t understand that he was the sort of person you would have been likely to have taken lunch with. But that isn’t my affair. Have you seen the second edition?”

      The girl shook her head.

      “Haven’t I told you that I never read the papers? I only saw what they showed me in at the Carlton.”

      “The Press Association have cabled to America, but no one seems to be able to make out exactly who the fellow is. His letter to the captain of the steamer was from the chairman of the company, and his introduction to the manager of the London and North Western Railway Company was from the greatest railway man in the world. Mr. Hamilton Fynes must have been a person who had a pretty considerable pull over there. Curiously enough, though, only the name of the man was mentioned in them; nothing about his business, or what he was doing over on this side. He was simply alluded to as ‘Mr. Hamilton Fynes—the gentleman bearing this communication.’ I expect, after all, that you know more about him than any one.”

      She shook her head.

      “What I know,” she said, “or at least most of it, I am going to tell you. A few years ago he was a clerk in a Government office in Washington. He was steady in those days, and was supposed to have a head. He used to write me occasionally. One day he turned up in London quite unexpectedly. He said that he had come on business, and whatever his business was, it took him to St. Petersburg and Berlin, and then back to Berlin again. I saw quite a good deal of him that trip.”

      “The dickens you did!” he muttered.

      Miss Penelope Morse laughed softly.

      “Come, Dicky,” she said, “don’t pretend to be jealous. You’re an outrageous flirt, I know, but you and I are never likely to get sentimental about one another.”

      “Why not?” he grumbled. “We’ve always been pretty good pals, haven’t we?”

      “Naturally,” she answered, “or I shouldn’t be here. Do you want to hear anything more about Mr. Hamilton Fynes?”

      “Of course I do,” he declared.

      “Well, be quiet, then, and don’t interrupt,” she said. “I knew London well and he didn’t. That is why, as I told you before, we saw quite a great deal of one another. He was always very reticent about his affairs, and especially about the business which had taken him on the Continent. Just before he left, however, he gave me—well, a hint.”

      “What was it?” the young man asked eagerly.

      She hesitated.

      “He didn’t put it into so many words,” she said, “and I am not sure, even now, that I ought to tell you, Dicky. Still, you are a fellow countryman and a budding diplomatist. I suppose if I can give you a lift I ought to.”

      The taxi was on the Embankment now, and they sped along for some time in silence. Mr. Richard Vanderpole was more than a little puzzled.

      “Of course, Penelope,” he said, “I don’t expect you to tell me anything which you feel that you oughtn’t to. There is one thing, however, which I must ask you.”

      She nodded.

      “Well?”

      “I should like to know what the mischief my being in the diplomatic service has to do with it?”

      “If I explained that,” she answered, “I should be telling you everything I haven’t quite made up my mind to do that yet.”

      “Tell me this?” he asked. “Would that hint which he dropped when he was here last help you to solve the mystery of his murder?”

      “It might,” she admitted.

      “Then I think,” he said, “apart from any other reason, you ought to tell somebody. The police at present don’t seem to have the ghost of a clue.”

      “They are not likely to find one,” she answered, “unless I help them.”

      “Say, Penelope,” he exclaimed, “you are not in earnest?”

      “I am,” she assured him. “It is exactly as I say. I believe I am one of the few people who could put the police upon the right track.”

      “Is there any reason why you