whose follies and deviltries are the talk of Europe. San Pietro tolerates him, for his court is brilliant, and has brought much money to the place; in fact, the whole island, and more especially the capital, is now one of the pleasure centres of Europe. This has had a most beneficent effect upon the fortunes of the island, but there are still some of the more sedate families who deplore the loss of dignity of their beloved land.
"The rightful heir is of course Miranda, the little princess with whom the poor nurse sought refuge in the forest.
"She is now living in England, the nurse is still with her, and Miranda has no idea of her high birth. Baxendale never confided to me what his projects were."
The solicitor leant over and picked up a letter which had been in the deed-box and handed it over to Edward, who took it and sat with it unopened in his hand waiting for Mr. Nixon to speak.
"You will read that when you leave here, Mr. Sydney, carefully, and I shall expect to hear from you in the course of a few days. There is the matter of money to be considered. My client has made adequate provision"—Edward pricked up his ears at this—"for what he terms 'the mission.'"
"In two days I will call on you again, Mr. Nixon. Good-afternoon."
Povey stood in Leadenhall Street at the entrance to St. Mary Axe and tried to think things over. It seemed to him as though he had just emerged from the gloom of romantic forests and the splendour of courts, and the foggy atmosphere and hoard of hurrying clerks appeared to him to be unreal. Then he pulled himself together and strolled quietly westward.
Along Leadenhall Street and through the market he walked deep in thought, making his way from force of habit in the direction of London Bridge. It was not until the spars and masts of the shipping came in sight that he remembered his changed conditions, when he hailed a passing taxi and was driven to Euston.
He had not long to wait for a train to Bushey, and no sooner had it left the platform than he had the letter out of his pocket and was breaking the seal. It was written on the paper of the Waldorf Hotel, New York, and was dated at the beginning of the year.
"MY DEAR SYDNEY,
"I am addressing you in this letter, as I hope and devoutly trust that yours will be the hands into which it will fall. My own health has been so bad of late and has shown such unmistakable signs of breaking up that I fear I must give up all hope of ever carrying out, personally, my desires. Next to myself, I would wish you to do so; failing you, Mr. Nixon has his instructions what to do. But you won't fail me.
"This gentleman will have told you the outlines of the history of the Princess Miranda. It has always been my desire that on her eighteenth birthday she should be told the story of her high origin. As this date approaches—the 15th of November—I feel that the seven or eight months between us will see my finish, so while there is yet time I write to you, my old friend, to act for me in this matter.
"The Princess, I have named her Galva, after a carn in the vicinity of her house, is at present living with her nurse at Tremoor, a few miles from Penzance.
"Mr. Nixon will give you, on your expressing your willingness to undertake the mission, two or three objects which will prove beyond doubt the claim of the dear girl to the throne of San Pietro. You will go to her and tell her everything; I would not feel I had done my duty were I to keep her in ignorance, although it might be kinder to do so.
"If, after hearing you out, she elects to remain in her quiet peaceful life, she shall do so. If, on the other hand, she decides on following up her high destiny you will take her with her nurse to Corbo, travelling as independent English tourists, and seek out Señor Luazo, or his heir, at 66, Calle Mendaro, and hand him a letter which Mr. Nixon will give you. After that I can safely leave you in his keeping.
"My fortune, I have divided equally between the man who undertakes this mission and Galva herself, with the exception of an annuity to Señora Paluda, the nurse who has done so much and been so much to little Galva.
"I can easily throw my mind back to that day in the forest, and the smiling babe holding up her little arms is a picture that will always be with me even at the end. Tell Galva that I will die thinking of her and of all she has been to a lonely old bachelor.
"When the end comes, too, I will think of you and of what you are doing for me, and will bless you for it.
"And now, my old friend, good-bye.
"Yours ever, HUBERT BAXENDALE."
Edward Povey folded up the letter carefully and placed it in his pocket. Then, leaning his head in his hand, gazed out at the flying landscape and tried to think things out. It took him some little time to appreciate who he really was.
He had felt, ever since Mr. Nixon had mentioned the financial aspect of the undertaking, that he would be more than foolish to let slip such a providential way out of his sea of difficulties. The moral side to the question he was able to smooth over to his satisfaction. He knew Mr. Kyser, and Mr. Kyser's ways, and told himself that that gentleman would not welcome, at his time of life, an adventure such as the one that the solicitor had put before him that afternoon. Again, he told himself that it was not possible for him to communicate with Mr. Kyser until the eighteenth birthday of the princess had passed. He said it would be wrong and unkind to let the poor lonely girl think that she was forgotten.
Further self-discussion on the matter was taken out of his hands by a watching Fate who suggested something refreshing as he breasted the first part of the straggling hill that led from the railway station up to Bushey Heath. He paused at the Merry Month of May, then decided to push on to a little hostelry that he had noticed on the way down that morning.
He entered the door of the White Hart and turned to the right through the tiny bar into the smoke-room. Two tweed-clad artists from the near-by studios lounged in more or less elegant poses at the red-clothed table, they looked up and nodded as Edward entered, then returned to the perusal of the evening papers which had evidently just arrived.
The host of the inn came from the bar and attended to the new-comer's wants, and Edward took from his pocket an Evening News that he had bought in town. He read it listlessly for some minutes, then the two bored-looking youths looked up suddenly as the man gave a gasp. They stared at him so curiously that he felt an explanation was necessary.
"Went the wrong way—gentlemen," he said, pointing to his glass of beer—"windpipe, I think."
The elder of the two youths grunted and leaning back lit a cigarette. He watched Edward, at first carelessly, but as he saw the man take out a penknife and cut from the paper a paragraph, he grew more interested. In a few moments Edward gulped down his beer, and, without a word, made his way outside.
"Bertie," it was the elder artist who was speaking, "that chap saw something in the paper that upset him a little—is that the News you're reading?"
"Yes—why?"
"Look at page five, will you, the third paragraph from the bottom on column two. Read it out loud if you don't mind."
The paper rustled as the other young man turned to the desired portion, then in a blasé voice read:—
"MYSTERIOUS DEATH IN PARIS.
"A gentleman who arrived at the Hôtel Meurice from London two days ago has met with a fate such as is becoming more and
