He fell forward almost without a cry." "And Zorka?" I asked. "I brought her safely back again to us," was his simple answer. "See. She is my wife!" Luk is here, outside Belgrade, the Prince added. But in secret, for a price is set upon his head. He is a Turkish brigand, and he and his band terrorise the Montenegrin border. The Servian Government offered, only a month ago, twenty thousand dinars for his capture. They little dream he is in hiding in a cave over in yonder mountain, and that he is supplied with food by his faithful little wife here! And true sportsman that he was, he raised his glass again to her--and to her husband. CHAPTER ELEVEN. TOUCHING THE WIDOW'S MITE. ONE. The Prince, keen motorist that he was, had--attended by the faithful Garrett, of course--been executing some remarkably quick performances on the Brooklands track. About a month before he had purchased a hundred horse-power racing-car, and now devoted a good deal of his time to the gentle art of record-breaking. Some of his times for "the mile" had been very creditable, and as Mr Richard Drummond, son of a Manchester cotton magnate, his name was constantly appearing in the motor journals. Having for the time being discarded the purple, and with it his cosy chambers off Piccadilly, he had now taken up his quarters at that small hotel so greatly patronised by motorists, the "Hut," on the Ripley Road. Among the many road-scouts, with their red discs, in that vicinity he had become extremely popular on account of his generosity in tips, while to the police with his ugly grey low-built car with its two seats behind the long bonnet he was a perpetual source of annoyance. Though he never exceeded the speed limit--in sight of the police--yet his open exhaust roared and throbbed, while his siren was the most ear-piercing of any on the road. A little bit of business up in Staffordshire which he had recently brought to a successful issue by the aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson, and Mr Max Mason, had placed them all in funds, and while the worthy Bayswater vicar was taking his ease at the "Majestic" up at Harrogate--where, by the way, he had become extremely popular among his fellow guests--Mason was at the Bath at Bournemouth for a change of air. To the guests at Harrogate the Rev Thomas Clayton had told the usual tale which seems to be on the lips of every cleric, no matter how snug his living--that of the poor parish, universal suffering, hard work, small stipend, ailing wife and several small children. Indeed, he admitted to one or two of the religious old ladies whose acquaintance he had made, that some of his wealthier parishioners, owing to his nervous breakdown, had subscribed in order to send him there for a month's holiday.