“Precisely!” crowed Mr. Priestley. “The Crown Prince joined the firm of—now what was the name? Ah, yes; Hamley and Waterhouse. Was it at Hamley and Waterhouse’s that you were employed?” Laura would have given anything to shriek out: “No! It was The Diestampers and Bedstead-Knob-Beaters Company, Ltd.!” but found herself unable to do anything of the sort. Fascinated into helplessness, she could only nod dumbly again. “Exactly!” squeaked Mr. Priestley in triumph (not unmerited triumph). “And the man you knew as plain Mr. Jones or Robinson or whatever it was, my dear, was in reality the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina.” Mr. Priestley beamed ingenuous enjoyment of this terrific climax. Laura continued to gape speechlessly. She was, in fact, flabbergasted. It never occurred to her for a single instant that Mr. Priestley was diving into hitherto unexplored depths of fiction. Why should it? Laura knew Mr. Priestley well enough, and she knew that he would never have dreamed of doing such a thing on his own volition; what she did not know was that Mr. Priestley had just been subjected for nearly two whole hours to the remarkable stimulus of Cynthia’s smile. She just went on gaping, while her mind turned a series of complicated cart-wheels. “So you see how very serious that is,” Mr. Priestley took up his tale in more sober accents. “My friend had no idea of the Crown Prince’s house at Duffley, and this really is rather extraordinary, because these Nesbitts, who seem quite respectable people, not only deny all knowledge of the affair itself but even of the Crown Prince himself. My friend has had them very carefully examined (of course without their suspecting anything of the sort) and their story checked, and on the whole he is inclined to believe they are speaking the truth. That makes it all the more remarkable that you should know about him being there, doesn’t it?” “Y-yes,” said Laura, faintly, finding her voice with an effort. “However, there is no doubt he was there, and there is no doubt that he was a blackguard even if he was a Crown Prince; what you told me quite proves that, though naturally I did not mention any of that to my friend. Even now I can’t say that I’m altogether sorry I shot him; he seems to have deserved it if ever a man did, Crown Prince or no Crown Prince. So I don’t think you need worry yourself on that score, my dear niece,” said Mr. Priestley kindly. “Th-thank you,” faltered his dear niece, who certainly was not worrying herself on _that_ score. There was a little pause while Mr. Priestley extracted his cigarette-case, courteously asked permission to smoke, and received a feeble affirmative.