The Lady in the Car By William Le Queux Published by J.B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. This edition dated 1908. The Lady in the Car, by William Le Queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE LADY IN THE CAR, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX. PREFACE. AN APOLOGY. I hereby tender an apology to the reader for being compelled, in these curious chronicles of an adventurous motorist and his actions towards certain of his female acquaintances, to omit real names, and to substitute assumed ones. With the law of libel looming darkly, the reason is obvious. Since the days when, as lads, we played cricket together at Cheltenham "the Prince," always a sportsman and always generous to the poor, has ever been my friend. In the course of my own wandering life of the past dozen years or so, I have come across him in all sorts of unexpected places up and down Europe, and more especially in those countries beyond the Danube which we term the Balkans. For certain of his actions, and for the ingenuity of his somewhat questionable friends, I make no apology. While the game of "mug-hunting" remains so easy and so profitable, there will be always both hunters and hunted. As my friend's escapades were related to me, so have I set them down in the following pages, in the belief that my readers may perhaps care to make more intimate acquaintance with the clever, fearless, and altogether remarkable man whose exploits have already, from time to time, been referred to in guarded and mysterious terms by the daily press. William Le Queux. CHAPTER ONE. HIS HIGHNESS'S LOVE AFFAIR. The Prince broke open a big box of choice "Petroffs," selected one, lit it slowly, and walked pensively to the window. He was in a good mood that morning, for he had just got rid of a troublesome visitor. The big _salon_ was elegantly furnished with long mirrors, gilt chairs covered with sky-blue silk upholstery, a piano, and a pretty writing-table set close to the long window, which led out to a balcony shaded by a red-and-white sun-blind--the _salon_ of the best suite in the Majestic, that huge hotel facing the sea in King's Road, Brighton. He was a tall, well-set-up man of about thirty-three; dark-haired, good-looking, easy-going, and refined, who, for the exception of the slightest trace of foreign accent in his speech, might easily have been mistaken for an Englishman. In his well-cut dark brown flannels and brown shoes he went to the balcony, and, leaning over, gazed down upon the sun-lit promenade, full of life and movement below. His arrival a few days before had caused quite a flutter in the big hotel. He had not noticed it, of course, being too used to it. He travelled a great deal--indeed, he was always travelling nowadays--and had learned to treat the constant endeavours of unknown persons to scrape acquaintance with him with the utter disregard they deserved.