hardly finished stocking the place with groceries, and opens the day after to-morrow. His name is Newman.”
“Then how did they get their booty away?”
“That’s the mystery. Unless through the back of the shop next door. No motor-car came along the street in the night, for Ashdown’s child was ill, and Mrs Ashdown was up all night and heard nothing. The means by which they got such a heavy lot of coin away so neatly is as mysterious as how they obtained the keys.”
“Depend upon it that my scoundrelly valet has had a finger in this!” the Prince declared. “I’ll assist you to try and find him. I happen to know some of his friends in London.”
Northover was delighted, and at the police-station the superintendent thanked his Highness for his kind promise of assistance. Mr Mason was ubiquitous, and the parson full of astonishment at the daring coup of the unknown thieves. Two bank directors came down from town in the afternoon, and after a discussion, a full report was telegraphed to New Scotland Yard.
That same evening the Prince went up to London, accompanied by the keen-eyed Mr Mason, leaving the Parson still the guest of Mr Northover.
The latter, however, would scarcely have continued to entertain him, had he known that, on arrival at King’s Cross, his Highness and Mr Mason took a cab to a certain house in Hereford Road, Bayswater, where Charles and Garrett were eagerly awaiting him. In the room were two other men whom the Prince shook by the hand and warmly congratulated.
Charles opened the door of the adjoining room, a poorly furnished bedroom, where stood a chest of drawers. One drawer after the other he opened.
They were full of bags of golden sovereigns!
“Those impressions you sent us, Prince, gave us a lot of trouble,” declared the elder of the two men, with a pronounced American accent. “The keys were very difficult to make, and when you sent us word that the parson had tried them and they wouldn’t act, we began to fear that it was no go. But we did the trick all right, after all, didn’t we? Guess we spent a pretty miserable week in Stamford, but you seemed to be having quite a good time. Where’s the Sky-pilot?”
“He’s remaining – convalescent, you know. And as for Bob Newman, he’ll be compelled to carry on that confounded grocery business next door for at least a couple of months – before he fails, and shuts up.”
“Well,” exclaimed the man Mason, whom everybody in Stamford – even the police themselves – believed to be a detective. “It was a close shave! You know, Prince, when you came out of the bank after dinner and I slipped in past you, I only just got into the shadow before that slip of a girl of Northover’s ran down the stairs after you. I saw you give her a kiss in the darkness.”
“She deserved a kiss, the little dear,” replied his Highness, “for without her we could never have brought off so complete a thing.”
“Ah! you always come in for the good things,” Charles remarked.
“Because I’m a prince,” was his Highness’s reply.
The police are still looking for the Prince’s valet, and his Highness has, of course, assisted them. Charles, however, got away to Copenhagen to a place of complete safety, and he being the only person suspected, it is very unlikely that the bank will ever see their money again – neither is Nellie Northover ever likely to see her prince.
Chapter Three
The Mysterious Sixty
When the smart chauffeur, Garrett, entered the cosy chambers of his Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, alias Charles Fotheringham, alias Henry Tremlett, in Dover Street, Piccadilly, he found him stretched lazily on the couch before the fire. He had exchanged his dinner jacket for an easy coat of brown velvet; between his lips was a Russian cigarette of his pet brand, and at his elbow a brandy and soda.
“Ah! Garrett,” he exclaimed as the chauffeur entered. “Come here, and sit down. Shut the door first. I want to talk to you.”
As chauffeur to the Prince and his ingenious companions, Garrett had met with many queer adventures and been in many a tight corner. To this day he wonders he was not “pinched” by the police a dozen times, and certainly would have been if it were not that the gay, good-looking, devil-may-care Prince Albert never left anything to chance. When a coup was to be made he thought out every minute detail, and took precaution against every risk of detection. To his marvellous ingenuity and wonderful foresight Garrett, with his friends, owed his liberty.
During the three years through which he had thrown in his lot with that select little circle of “crooks,” he had really had a very interesting time, and had driven them thousands of miles, mostly on the Continent, in the big “Mercédès” or the “sixty” six-cylinder “Minerva.”
His Highness’s share in the plunder had been very considerable. At his bankers he possessed quite a respectable balance, and he lived in easy affluence the life of a prince. In the drawing-rooms of London and Paris he was known as essentially a ladies’ man; while in Italy he was usually Henry Tremlett, of London, and in France he was Charles Fotheringham, an Anglo-Frenchman and Chevalier of the Légion d’Honneur.
“Look here, Garrett,” he said, raising himself on his elbow and looking the man in the face as he tossed his cigarette in the grate. “To-day, let’s see, is December 16. You must start in the car to-morrow for San Remo. We shall spend a week or two there.”
“To-morrow!” the chauffeur echoed. “The roads from Paris down to the Riviera are pretty bad just now. I saw in the paper yesterday that there’s heavy snow around Valence.”
“Snow, or no snow, we must go,” the Prince said decisively. “We have a little matter in hand down there – you understand?” he remarked, his dark eyes still fixed upon the chauffeur.
The man wondered what was the nature of the coup intended.
“And now,” he went on, “let me explain something else. There may be some funny proceedings down at San Remo. But just disregard everything you see, and don’t trouble your head about the why, or wherefore. You’re paid to be chauffeur, Garrett – and paid well, too, by your share of the profits – so nothing else concerns you. It isn’t, sparklers we’re after this time – it’s something else.”
The Prince who, speaking English so well, turned his birth and standing to such good account, never told the chauffeur of his plans. His confederates, indeed, were generally kept completely in the dark until the very last moment. Therefore, they were all very frequently puzzled by what seemed to be extraordinary and motiveless actions by the leader of the party of adventurers.
The last coup made was in the previous month, at Aix-les-Bains, the proceeds being sold to the old Jew in Amsterdam for four thousand pounds sterling, this sum being divided up between the Prince, the Parson, a neat-ankled little Parisienne named Valentine Déjardin, and Garrett. And they were now going to spend a week or two in that rather dull and much over-rated little Italian seaside town, where the sharper and crook flourish to such a great extent in spring – San Remo.
They were evidently about to change their tactics, for it was not diamonds they were after, but something else. Garrett wondered as the Count told him to help himself to a whisky and soda what that “something else” would turn out to be.
“I daresay you’ll be a bit puzzled,” he said, lazily lighting a fresh cigarette, “but don’t trouble your head about the why or wherefore. Leave that to me. Stay at the Hotel Regina
