“I have worked out every detail myself,” he said. He took a note-book from his pocket. “I will show you, Princess,” he said impressively. He turned the gilt-edged leaves until he came to two pages covered with his fine writing. “You will get some idea of the work involved in the running of a special train,” he said; “here are the times. There is the driver’s name, the fireman’s name, the assistant fireman’s name, the names of the two guards.” She looked at the book. “I cannot read your writing very well,” she laughed; “you must not forget that my family was very old fashioned and my dear father never allowed us to learn the Roman alphabet until we were quite grown up. But I can see what a very difficult business it is.” She handed the book back to him with a little sigh. “I am afraid I am very stupid,” she said; “figures always bother me and I can see that you revel in them. I hate writing, but by the way your book is filled, it seems that you revel in it! I cannot understand people who like to write. It is always an agony for me to compose an ordinary letter. My thoughts come so much faster than my poor hand can move.” She took a pad and pencil from the silver mounted stationery case in front of her. “I will show you something,” she said. She wrote rapidly, resting the pad on her knee and he watched her in astonishment as she proceeded to fill the sheet. “There,” she said triumphantly, “that is what I can do best.” “It looks like shorthand,” he said. “It is something like Russian shorthand,” said the girl, “and I am such a lazy person that I always use it whenever I want to write a note. My secretary, who is the only person in the world who understands it, transcribes it. I do it because I hate writing.” “So you are clever, after all, Princess.” She reached out her little hand and patted his arm. “You don’t know how clever I am,” she said and they both laughed together. CHAPTER IX. THE SHAREHOLDERS AND AN INTERRUPTION Colonel Westhanger looked at his watch. “She’s twenty minutes late already,” he said. Gregori rolled another cigarette and looked enquiringly at Dr. Philip Garon who was fingering his trim beard and talking with some animation to the middle-aged pallid man, who was known to the world as Mr. Cunningham and to the police as an expert safe breaker. All Crime Street, with the exception of the admirable Mr. Millet, was present. The Bishop with his large placid face was playing bezique with Francis Stockmar. Colling Jacques, who had the appearance of a prosperous butler who had settled down to the management of his own private hotel, was reading the newspaper. Mr. Mulberry, that respectable man with his grey side-whiskers and his sad dog-like eyes, was discussing Renaissance architecture with the other Stockmar and the Colonel, pacing the room impatiently, stopped now and again to fling a word to one or the other.