Only once in his life had he been honestly in love. The tragic story of his romance in Florence I have already explained in a previous chapter. His thoughts were always of his real princess--ever of her. She had been his ideal, and would always remain so. He had defended her good name, but dared not return to her and expose himself as a fraud and a criminal. Better by far for her to remain in ignorance of the truth; better that he should possess only sweet sad memories of her soft lips and tender hands. As he walked, a young man passed in a dirty white racing-car, on his way to Brooklands, and waved to him. It was George Hartwell, the holder of the one-mile record, and an intimate friend of his. The Prince was debating within himself whether he should adopt the Parson's suggestion, abandon motor-racing for the nonce, and join him up in Yorkshire. "I wonder whether the game's worth the candle?" he went on, speaking to himself after the cloud of dust has passed. "If what Clayton says is true, then it's a good thing. The old woman is evidently gone on him. I suppose he's told her the tale, and she believes he's a most sanctified person." He halted at a gate near the entrance to Ripley village, and lighting another cigarette puffed vigorously at it. "My hat!" he ejaculated at last. "A real parson must have an exceedingly soft time of it--snug library, pretty girls in the choir, tea-fights, confidences, and all that kind of thing. In the country no home is complete without its tame curate." Then, after a long silence, he at length tossed away the end of his cigarette, and declared: "Yes, I'll go. There'll be a bit of fun--if nothing else." And he walked to the village telegraph office and wired one word to his bosom friend and ingenious accomplice. It was a word of their secret code--Formice--which Clayton would interpret as "All right. Shall be with you as soon as possible, and will carry out the suggestions made in your letter." Then he walked back to the "Hut," where he found Garrett sitting out in that little front garden against the road, which is usually so crowded by motorists on warm Sunday afternoons. "Better go and pack," he said sinking into a chair as his supposed servant rose and stood at attention. "We're going back to town in an hour." Garrett, without asking questions, returned into the hotel. He saw by the Prince's sharp decided manner that something new was in the wind. An hour later Dick Drummond motor-maniac, drew the car along the road towards Esher, and as he disappeared around the bend among the trees, he ceased to exist. Prince Albert became himself again. Direct to Dover Street they went--and there found the discreet Charles awaiting them. Fresh kit was packed while Garrett, in a garage over in Westminster where he was unknown, was busily engaged in repainting the ugly racer with its big bonnet a bright yellow.