Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 12, 1967

Michael Arlen Midnight Adventure

This is the story of Prince Rudolf, son of the Duke of Suiza, and of an Englishman who was a bull of a man; and of the duel of wits between them, and how both proved they could take it as well as dish it out; and of that strange familiarity you will feel about Prince Rudolf, as if you had met him before on older pages, and more than once. And indeed you have, for Prince Rudolf comes of a royal literary line.

The Prince, we would hazard, is a direct descendant of that adventurous old caliph, Haroun-al-Raschid of bygone Baghdad, and surely he is kin of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Prince Florizel of Bohemia, that accomplished nobleman who also liked (in O. Henry’s phrase) “to go bumming” and night-prowling.

Yes, you will find this story by Michael Arlen a tale of high romance and dark crime and glittering detection — a story of enchantment and charm that “even in this world never die”...

Now it is told in London how on one winter’s night not long ago a gentleman who was walking from Grosvenor Square down Carlos Place was accosted by a lady in a peculiar manner and with curious results.

Earlier that same evening two gentlemen of correct appearance might have been observed dining together at a quiet corner table in the restaurant of a London hotel which is famous for the distinction of its guests. Our two friends, one lined and gray-haired, the other younger and lean and uncommonly handsome in a saturnine way, appeared to be absorbed in conversation.

The younger gentleman talked the least and, as was only proper, listened attentively to his gray-haired companion. This was not surprising, since the father was telling his son in the most urgent terms that only a rich marriage could appease the ferocity of their overdraft at the bank.

In days gone by, when the last King of Navarre strode into history as Henri IV, first and finest of the Bourbon Kings of France, the mountainous half of Navarre became, owing to reasons we cannot go into now, the Duchy of Suiza. The Dukes of Suiza were royal in that pathetically half-starved way which is disparagingly known as “minor.” For several centuries the Duchy of Suiza was respected, or perhaps overlooked, as an independent kingdom, and eventually forgotten.

The two gentlemen at dinner were Carlos XXVII, Duke of Suiza, and his only son, Prince Rudolf. But, as the worldly father pointed out to his worldly son, high titles like Duke and Prince without the cash to support them added up to so much spinach put before a starving man.

“In short,” said Duke Carlos, who liked to speak the English he had picked up from the American visitors who had thronged the Casinos of his duchy before his exile, “we are bust wide open, boy — unless you shake the Christmas tree to some effect.”

Rudolf sipped his champagne with an air of saturnine fatality. “Our reputation,” said he, “is enough to wither even the stoutest Christmas tree as we approach.”

“You must find some sweet young innocent, Rudolf. Or haven’t I already heard something about you and the American heiress, Baba Carstairs? I can only hope, my friend, that you are impressing the girl as being a romantic person — for you can look extremely romantic, particularly when you are telling lies.”

Prince Rudolf finished the champagne in his glass. “Dear father,” said he at last, “have you ever been in love?”

Duke Carlos looked at his son with pity.

“Frequently,” said he. “Why, did you think you had invented love?”

“Perhaps,” said the young man moodily, “I could suggest some badly-needed improvements on it.”

“So you are going to tell me that you are still crazy about that Follies girl you met last year in Paris?”

“No, not last year, but ten years ago, and not a Follies girl, but a girl. But perhaps it would be better for men like us not even to think about her.”

“You look so romantic when you speak of her, Rudolf, that I feel sure you told her many lies. Forget her, boy. Remember our traditions. Remember our name. Remember our overdraft. In short, remember Miss Carstairs.”

Now, it is of this Prince Rudolf it is told that, as later that night he walked moodily to his modest lodgings in the sulky shadows behind the clubs of Piccadilly, he was accosted by a lady in a peculiar manner.

He saw a car, long and dark, of sober elegance. It passed close by him, as such cars do, with no more sound than a flick of a cat’s whiskers. A few yards ahead, it stopped.

As Rudolf walked past, his moody gaze ahead, he was thinking how much better it would be for that pretty, nice, empty-headed little millionairess Baba Carstairs if a selfish brute like himself left her alone. He liked her very well, of course. But it would not have occurred to him to marry her if she had been poor.

It was at that moment that a corner of his eye was caught by something strange and bright in the cold night. It was a hand and arm alight with jewelry against the black background of the car.

“Can I drop you?” said a low voice.

Rudolf, who had been very well brought up, as regards superficial manners anyway, took off his hat to the brilliant arm, observing at the same time that the hand was slender and young and cool, like the voice.

“You are very kind,” said he. “But I have only a short way to go.”

“There is nothing to fear,” said the cool voice.

The correct and incurious profile of the elderly chauffeur at the wheel betrayed nothing but the propriety of his employer. Rudolf, stepping closer to the open window, caught a glimpse of the lady’s face within the shadows — and was lightly touched by a faint perfume that reminded him so poignantly of a past enchantment that for an instant he walked again in a garden with a slight fair girl.

Telling himself that he was a fool, he swiftly opened the door and climbed within.

“Thank you,” said the lady, “for being both brave and polite.”

Prince Rudolf smiled. “I fancy it is neither courage nor politeness that inspires men to do what beautiful women ask them.”

He found the lady examining him with the utmost gravity.

“Height, five-eleven,” he said, “hair, black; eyes, brown; one small mole on left cheek; self-confident manner; no distinctive peculiarities...”

Her faint smile did not touch the gravity of her eyes, of which he had already formed a very favorable opinion. They were direct and blue, of a brilliant darkness, like the blue sea whipped by wind. The lady’s hair, too, was maybe-as you like it, fair and curly, but without frivolity. Rudolf, experienced in petty encounters, saw at once that only some great urgency had forced this lady to address a stranger, for she could not be corrupted by small desires.

“And I?” she said.

He noticed, but without surprise, that the car was moving. It was agreeable to find that he was not so tired of the world as he had fancied he was.

“And I, sir?” she said. “How would you describe the stranger who has kidnaped you?”

“I like you,” Said Prince Rudolf.

“Dear me,” said the lady, “you are quick.”

“That’s me all over,” said Rudolf. “The minute I set eyes on you, I said to myself, there’s a woman I like a lot.”

“I hadn’t an idea,” said the lady, “that conversation with a stranger could be made so easy as you make it.”

“You are not a stranger. I recognized you right away.”

“Me? You recognized me?”

“Of course. You have never heard the old chestnut about the woman whom a man always meets too late?”

“Too late? Dear me, for what?”

“For his peace of mind, since she is usually already married.”

“Since I am single, sir, your peace of mind is safe. But thank you for saying nice things about my appearance.”

“Not only your appearance, madam. I have also taken a big liking to your character.”

“Then you are a clairvoyant?”

“A connoisseur — a student of dreams.”

“Were we talking of dreams?”

“No, but we are going to. When men dream,” said Prince Rudolf, “of that kind of happiness which is too often forbidden them owing to having married in haste, or some other silly reason, their dreams are inspired by thoughts of the perfect companion. It is not necessary to shut my eyes to describe her. She must be exquisite, of course, but without the trivial emphasis that merely smart women lay on the small fashions of the moment. Her beauty should wear a certain gravity, for does she not understand much and forgive everything, particularly the greed and the follies of men? She must be wise, naturally, but not too wise never to make a mistake, never to take a risk, never to sigh for romance, never to hurt herself. She will always do her utmost not to hurt anybody else, and at all difficult times she will take refuge in laughing at herself, for above everything she is gifted with the good manners of the heart.”

“Dear me,” she said, “I never knew that the dreams of men were so informed by kindness. Your reputation, Prince Rudolf, scarcely prepares a listener for such sentiments.”

“Madam, in your company I had permitted myself for one moment to forget all but the little that is best in me. But now that you have reminded me of my ordinary self I must admit that I should like nothing so much as to kiss you and damn the consequences.”

“That rebuke,” she said, “was well deserved. For no one could have been more polite than you. You have not yet asked me how I knew you, where we are going, or who I am. I recognized you from your photographs. I followed you from the restaurant where you dined. We are going to my house, which is here in Belgrave Square. My name is no matter. And I am going to ask you, sir, to do me a service. You see, I make no excuses. My behavior is too outrageous for excuses to have any value. If you wish, you may say good night now, my car will take you home, and I shall be the richer for having enjoyed an instructive conversation with a man of the world.”

Undeterred by her gravity, Rudolf laughed outright. For many months he had not felt so lighthearted.

“Miss X,” said he, “it was you who spoke of my reputation. So, if you think you can get rid of me so easily, you’re crazy.”

Her level eyes searched his face. He was sobered by the profound contempt that seemed to add a dark light to their dark brilliance. He would have noticed this contempt before had he not been so engaged, as was his way, in trying to make an impression on a beautiful woman.

“You are afraid of nothing, Prince Rudolf?”

They were on the pavement now, before the house, and he glanced at the dark imposing building.

“Of a great many things,” he said, “but of no possible hurt that could come to me from you.”

“Perhaps,” she said, “you are wrong there.”

An elderly manservant let them in. Rudolf, divesting himself of his overcoat in the large hall, had time to realize the substantial wealth of his surroundings. From above the great fireplace, in which the ashes of a log fire glowed dimly, one of Van Dyck’s cavaliers thoughtfully measured the world, while on another wall was the dark and sour visage of a Rembrandt.

Then he was shown into a long paneled library. It was dimly lit, and in front of the fireplace at the far end stood the strange lady and a tall, fair, red-complexioned bull of a man of about his own age.

“This is my brother,” said the lady, “Mr. Geraldine. I am Iris Geraldine.”

Mr. Geraldine’s brick-red complexion sharpened by contrast the paleness of his cold blue eyes. He made no attempt to conceal the hostility with which he measured the faintly smiling face of his guest.

“So now you realize,” he said, “why I told my sister not to give you her name, for had you known it you certainly would not have come.”

“You misjudge me, Mr. Geraldine. For the sake of a woman like your sister I should willingly risk much more than a disagreeable encounter with a man like her brother. Now what is it you want with me?”

“Surely, Prince Rudolf, you can easily guess what I—”

“Wait,” said Rudolf sharply. “Before we go any further you will be so good as to ask me to sit down. I thank you. Then you will invite me to have a drink. Thank you. I prefer brandy.”

Mr. Geraldine’s handsome brick-red face broke into a fighting grin. You could see at once that he had good hands with a horse, that dogs would come to his whistle, and that he would both give and take a kick in the pants.

“Iris,” he turned to his sister, “perhaps you had better leave Prince Rudolf and me together.”

Miss Geraldine had not yet glanced at her kidnaped guest. She sat, somewhat stiffly, in a high Queen Anne chair, her eyes lost in the leaping colors of the bright fire.

“I am here,” said Prince Rudolf, “at Miss Geraldine’s express invitation, and I am enjoying her company very much. I hope you will stay with us, Miss Geraldine. No doubt your brother is a splendid fellow, but he is net half so pretty to look at as you are.”

She held her small head very still and erect, and he was conscious that she would much prefer to ignore his presence. She spoke to the fire, in her low cool voice, as though she was thinking out loud.

“I do not like,” she said, “to see any man humiliated, no matter how much he may deserve it.”

“I’ll risk that,” said Rudolf. “Go ahead, Mr. Geraldine. As you said, I know you are the chairman of the great and famous private bank of Geraldine Brothers, and that you are the trustee of the estate of Miss Carstairs.”

“Not only her trustee, Prince, but also her late father’s most intimate friend. She told me no later than this afternoon that she had made up her mind to marry you.”

“She ought to have told me first,” said Prince Rudolf, “but her decision makes me so happy that I must forgive her. Thank you for your congratulations, Mr. Geraldine.”

“Hers is a great fortune,” said Mr. Geraldine dryly.

“So my father has told me every day for weeks. He will be very pleased about this, as he has been so hard up lately. How agreeable it is to meet nice young girls like Miss Carstairs who think nothing of bringing a little sunshine into the lives of tired old men like my father. When I tell him tomorrow, he will be very touched.”

“He won’t,” Mr. Geraldine said, “because you won’t.”

Prince Rudolf’s attention appeared at that moment to be engaged in an exhaustive study of Iris Geraldine’s profile, and that he thought very highly of it was obvious from his expression.

“I won’t... what?” he said absently.

“You won’t tell your father you are going to marry Miss Carstairs, Prince, because you are not going to.”

“All complaints on that head,” said Rudolf, “should be addressed to Miss Carstairs in person. It is her life. It is her money. It is to be her marriage. And I am her choice.”

“A girl so young,” said Mr. Geraldine, “does not always know what is best for her. I cannot forbid Baba to marry you, because she is of age. I can’t persuade her not to by telling her that you, in spite of your great name, are a well-known waster and adventurer, that you are notorious both for your affairs with women and for your dexterity in getting your bills paid, because she dismisses all such facts as reflections on a misunderstood, handsome, and romantic prince.”

“And quite right too. That ought to teach you, Mr. Geraldine, not to go about putting nasty thoughts into young girls’ heads. Just because nobody has ever thought you romantic since you were a little boy in velvet pants, why be jealous of me?”

“I am never jealous,” said Mr. Geraldine, “of a crook.”

“Am I to understand, Mr. Geraldine, that you have just called me a crook?”

“You are. I have.”

“In that case,” said Prince Rudolf, rising from his chair, “I must have another brandy. You have interested me greatly, Mr. Geraldine. Won’t you please develop your theory?”

“It is not a theory, Prince, but a fact. But I had much rather not elaborate it — and I won’t, if you promise not to see Miss Carstairs again.”

“But that would never do, Mr. Geraldine. The poor girl would be very upset. My poor father would be very disappointed. And my poor creditors would be very angry.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Geraldine grimly. “On the formal announcement of your engagement to Miss Carstairs I shall notify the proper authorities that I have in my possession a check drawn in your favor by a Mr. John Anderson and cashed by you, which I have every reason to suspect is a forgery.”

“But why suspect?” said Prince Rudolf. “You know it’s a forgery.”

“So you admit forging Anderson’s signature to a check for £1,000?”

Prince Rudolf glanced aside at Iris Geraldine — and instantly found, to his surprise and consternation, that something inside him was beating painfully. He could not immediately put this curious phenomenon down to a disturbance of his heart-action, since he had for some years regarded his heart as a leathery veteran, dingily and immovably fixed within a dark cloud of cigarette smoke. But he was a reasonable man and had to face the fact that here the old veteran was, thumping like a boy’s just because a fair young woman with level eyes was regarding him gravely and impersonally, as a scientist might regard a maggot.

“Mr. Geraldine,” he said at last, and his voice for the first time was without any mockery at all, “when John Anderson died last week, did you not, as his executor, find any note among his papers referring to me?”

“I did not.”

“I think you did. I think you have that note in your possession. John Anderson was a gambler, and like nearly all gamblers he was a very honest man. Do you still say that he left no letter in his handwriting with reference to me?”

“I have already said so, Prince Rudolf.”

“Then I should like to put it on record, Mr. Geraldine, that you are a liar. This may be due to the fact that you were badly brought up, but the fact remains that you are a liar. A year ago John Anderson bet me a hundred pounds that I could not forge his signature and get away with it without suspicion. It was to be for a check of a thousand pounds merely so that the signature should be scrutinized carefully at the bank. I succeeded, returned the thousand pounds in cash to Anderson, who gave me the bet I had won and also a receipt for the sum of the forged check. I have that receipt. Among his papers you have already found a letter signed by him telling the circumstances of the forged check.”

“Prince Rudolf,” said Mr. Geraldine, “of course I am very glad that you have John Anderson’s receipt. When you come to be examined by the police on the matter of Anderson’s forged signature that receipt will no doubt form the pivot of your defense. It might even win you acquittal, and probably will, but in the absence of any letter from John Anderson among his effects exonerating you of all blame, I am afraid that a great deal of doubt will exist in the public mind as to whether you are, or are not, a common swindler. I have not yet found that letter among Anderson’s effects. If and when I do, I shall of course be delighted to let you know.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Geraldine. In return I can only say that if I was a cannibal I should simply have to drown you in Worcester sauce before being able to eat you. So I am to understand that unless I give up Miss Carstairs you will make it very unpleasant indeed for me?”

“I prefer to say, Prince, that unless you agree to give up this misguided girl, I shall have to do my best to show her what sort of a man you really are. As you know, by her father’s will she comes into her estate on the day she marries. And she told me today that it was her fixed intention, as she is very rich and you are poor, to settle on you a very considerable sum of money which would ensure you a comfortable income for life.”

“I wish,” sighed Rudolf, “that my father could hear you say that. His enthusiasm would be quite touching.”

“I fear he will be disappointed, Prince. But not to depress you both too much, and since after all you are being forced to give up a considerable fortune, I am prepared here and now to write you a check for £4,000. I shall send it to you on the day that Miss Carstairs tells me that she has decided not to marry you.”

“Dear me,” said Rudolf, “I see that I must have another brandy. Thank you, Mr. Geraldine. Your brandy is superb. Did you say four thousand pounds?”

“I did — merely, you understand, as a small consolation—”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow — it’s a big consolation. After all, are there many men whose charms could be valued at four thousand pounds? I fear you are a flatterer, Mr. Geraldine.”

The banker’s handsome red face was, for a man making a contemptuous offer, curiously eager, and Rudolf regarded him thoughtfully.

“Then you accept, Prince? You will agree to leave Miss Carstairs alone?”

But Rudolf’s attention appeared now to be engaged in yet another careful examination of Miss Geraldine’s cold profile.

“I note with regret,” he said, “that Miss Geraldine’s disapproval of me has increased to such an extent that, were she not a lady, she would express it in such old-fashioned terms as swindler, gigolo, and cad.”

“Cad,” said Iris Geraldine, “is an unpleasant word. But very descriptive. I should prefer you, Prince, to address yourself only to my brother. I am here merely as a witness to a business arrangement.”

“Not at all,” said Rudolf, with sudden sharpness. “It is a romantic arrangement.”

Astonished, they stared at him. He was smiling in his saturnine way. Mr. Geraldine glanced at his sister, and laughed. It was the kind of laugh for which a small chap would have been knocked down, but he was a bull of a man.

“These fellows,” said he, “can make anything seem romantic.”

“What fellows, Mr. Geraldine?”

“Romantic fellow, Prince — romantic wasters.”

“Well, I can promise you that your sister will find what I am going to say a good deal more romantic than you will. I am going to tell you a story.”

“Not to me,” said Miss Geraldine with spirit. “I am going to bed.”

“This story, Miss Geraldine,” said Rudolf slowly, “is about your sister.”

They stared at him across an appalled silence. But his dark eyes saw only Iris Geraldine’s still white face, at last turned full to his.

“You knew her?” she sighed.

“But for her,” said Prince Rudolf, “I should not be here tonight.”

“Fantastic nonsense!” said Geraldine harshly. “Diana died more than ten years ago.”

“Ten years, three months and five days ago, my friend. I came into your car, Miss Geraldine, only because I recognized the faint scent you are wearing. It is made by an obscure perfumer in Paris, and I gave her first bottle to Diana. Then for sentimental reasons I paid my friend Louvois, the perfumer, enough money to buy the rights of the scent outright — that is, so that no one but Diana Geraldine should ever use it. I was a rich man then, you understand. Louvois, for as long as he was in business, was to send her one bottle every six months at this address.

“A year or so after she was killed in that motor accident near Fontainbleau, Louvois wrote to me enclosing a letter that he had received from England. The letter was from a girls’ school near Ascot, and was written by a schoolgirl to the effect that the duty-paid scent from Paris which had been delivered to Miss Geraldine was obviously for her elder sister, who was dead, but could it please go on being sent to the address in Belgrave Square so that she could use it when she was grown up in memory of her dead sister, and it was signed ‘Iris Geraldine.’

“So you will see why I so willingly came with you when you invited me. I told you, didn’t I, that you weren’t a stranger?”

“Diana,” said Iris Geraldine, so dimly that she was scarcely audible, “was the loveliest elder sister a little girl could have. I was fourteen when she died, and as our father and mother had died so long before, she was everything in the world — all heroines in one — to me. And so I clung to the sweet dry perfume which, so she once told her little sister, a fairytale prince had given her to use forever and ever.”

“Well,” said Mr. Geraldine bitterly, “there’s damn little of the fairy-tale about the Prince now.”

Rudolf smiled. “That’s true enough, dear me. But you must remember I was only twenty-three then — and Diana was twenty. Young people, Mr. Geraldine, arc sometimes very serious indeed about such trivialities as being in love.”

“Now that you have hurt Iris,” said her brother harshly, “by bringing up memories of her sister, may I ask what was your point in doing so?”

“He has not hurt me,” said Iris. Her eyes were hidden. Her voice came from behind an invisible curtain. “You didn’t intend to, did you, Prince?”

“Indirectly, my dear, I fear I must — that is, through this brother of yours. Mr. Geraldine, I told you about Diana because she used to speak of you, her elder brother and the head of the family. You will no doubt already have remarked that I don’t like you. This is not due wholly to your manner, which would make an unfavorable impression even on a drunken sailor. It is because Diana did not like you, as you of course know.

“That you are a bully goes without saying. But being a bully is not a crime — indeed it is sometimes an asset. One moment, Mr. Geraldine. I know also that in spite of your very respectable front as a great banker, you are an unscrupulous speculator. Diana — aged twenty to your twenty-five — guessed your true character.

“Now I am going to make the deduction that as Miss Carstairs’s trustee you have gambled with part of her funds and that in the recent Wall Street crash you have lost heavily. Wait. On her marriage you will have to show her accounts to her lawyers, with the result that you will find yourself in the dock. That is why you do not want her to marry until you can regain your losses.

“This is all guesswork, you will say, and no doubt you will tell me I am wrong. But on one point I can ease your mind. I am not going to marry Miss Carstairs.

“That is not because I wish to save you, but because I have fallen in love tonight for the second time in my life, though I fear the lady does not approve of me at all. I can only hope to win her approval in time.

“But that is another story. Tomorrow I shall advise Miss Carstairs to ask her lawyers to look into—”

Mr. Geraldine chewed his cigar. His cold eyes were thoughtful, but there was a grin on his handsome red face. This grin had no doubt been put there by an ancestor who had been caught red-handed while committing robbery under arms and had known that the game was over.

“Iris,” he said, “somebody ought to have warned me about the intelligence of princes. I begin to see now how even the shrewdest bankers have been persuaded to lend them money.”

“My father, Mr. Geraldine, who has had more than sixty years’ experience of owing money to the shrewedst bankers in London and New York, says that times are not what they were.”

Mr. Geraldine smiled across at him. His eyes were cold and watchful. “Prince Rudolf, I shall not like standing in the dock charged with having misappropriated my client’s funds.”

Rudolf nodded sympathetically. “Nor should I. Taking other people’s money is nice work, if you can get away with it. Given a bad character — like yours and my father’s — it’s all a matter of luck.”

“Then I am sorry that you are not your father, Prince. If you were, I should offer you £10,000 at the end of six months merely for keeping your mouth shut during that time. But as you are not, I fear I shall have to do something drastic, like shooting myself. But I don’t like the idea at all.”

Rudolf nodded sympathetically. “Yes, there is a degree of emphasis about suicide which is always disagreeable to a thoughtful mind. I shouldn’t commit suicide, Mr. Geraldine. It will probably embarrass more people than it will please.”

“But, my dear Prince, what else can I do? Miss Carstairs has never liked me, anyway. And when tomorrow you tell her of your suspicions, she will be only too eager to consult her lawyers.”

Rudolf turned to Miss Geraldine. “What do you think of all this, Iris?”

“I think,” she said very gravely, “that my brother has been playing with fire for a long time and that he has at last burned his hands. I think that tonight will mark a change for the better in him.”

“Then you don’t think he will shoot himself?”

She smiled unsteadily. “You are a pair of cruel babies, aren’t you?”

“Mr. Geraldine,” said Rudolf, “did you hear that? You are a cruel baby.”

“You too,” said Mr. Geraldine. “Have another brandy.”

“Thank you. Then, Iris, you think I ought not to tell Miss Carstairs?”

“I can promise you,” said Geraldine, “that her capital will be intact within six months. Also many innocent people will suffer loss if this comes to a head now. Later on, they won’t.”

“But I am lunching with the girl tomorrow,” said Prince Rudolf, “and I might possibly blurt out something.”

“You can put off the lunch,” said Iris coldly.

“But I hate lunching alone, Iris. Here is an idea. Will you lunch with me?”

“I am already engaged.”

Rudolf turned to Geraldine. “There you are, my friend. I’ve done my best. She doesn’t like me. She won’t lunch with me. I fear you will have to commit suicide, after all.”

“Nonsense, Iris,” said her brother. “Of course you can lunch with him.”

“But I don’t want to,” said Iris.

“She doesn’t like me,” said Rudolf helplessly. “Give it up, Geraldine.”

“I do like you,” said Iris stormily. “It’s only that you talk such nonsense so plausibly that I daren’t trust myself alone with you.”

“That’s splendid,” said Rudolf. “Unfortunately, we shall be lunching in a public place, and I shan’t be able to do very much.”

“But you can always talk.”

“I shall. I shall propose marriage.”

“I shall refuse.”

“Naturally. Then I shall point out that you lack foresight. For if you had foresight you would know that it is sheer waste of time to go on refusing a man whom you are going to accept in the end.”

“Very well,” said Iris, “I lack foresight.”

“Mr. Geraldine,” said Prince Rudolf, “we have been forgetting my father. Some time ago you called me a crook—”

“That was politics, Prince. Anderson had told me the real story.”

“Politics cost money, Mr. Geraldine. In payment for your politics you will be so good as to earn my father’s undying gratitude by sending him tomorrow the sum of £4,000 in notes from an Anonymous Admirer. This gift will give him great pleasure both financially and morally, since he has never had any admirers, anonymous or otherwise. Good night, Mr. Geraldine. Your servant, Iris. I shall call for you at one tomorrow.”

The two men shook hands. This was a quiet and thoughtful ceremony, which they appeared to enjoy.

Iris, with a sudden high color, walked to the door and out into the hall. Prince Rudolf found her there, and she walked with him towards the front hall. Very lightly she touched his arm.

“Thank you for not ruining my brother. That was because of Diana?”

“Because of Diana and Iris,” he said. “Because of enchantment and gentleness. Because I am a lucky man to have found out tonight that, even in this world, they never die.”

He stooped to kiss her hand, and as he did so a flutter of lips just touched his forehead.

“Dear me,” she whispered, “who would have thought you were such a darling!”