The _Sussex Daily News_ next morning contained the following announcement: "His Royal Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein has left Brighton for the Continent." CHAPTER TWO. THE PRINCE AND THE PARSON. His Royal Highness descended from the big cream-coloured "Mercedes" in the Place Royale, drew off his gloves, and entered the quiet, eminently aristocratic Hotel de l'Europe. All Brussels knew that Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was staying there. Hence, as the car pulled up, and the young man in long dust-coat and motor-goggles rose from the wheel and gave the car over to the smart chauffeur Garrett in the grey uniform with crimson facings, a small crowd of gaping idlers assembled to watch his entrance to the hotel. In the hall a few British tourists in tweeds or walking-skirts stared at him, as though a real live prince was of different clay, while on ascending the main staircase to his private suite, two waiters bowed themselves almost in two. In his sitting-room his middle-aged English man-servant was arranging his newspapers, and closing the door sharply behind him he said: "Charles! That girl is quite a sweet little thing. I've seen her again!" "And your Highness has fallen in love with her?" sniffed the man. "Well, I might, Charles. One never knows." And he took a "Petroff" from the big silver box, and lit it with care. "I am very lonely, you know." Charles's lips relaxed into a smile, but he made no remark. He was well aware how confirmed was his master's bachelordom. He often admired pretty girls, just as much as they adored him--because he was a prince-- but his admiration was tinged with the acidity of sarcasm. When Charles had gone, his Highness flung off his motor-coat and threw himself into a big chair to think. With a smart rat-a-plan, an infantry regiment of _les braves Belges_ was crossing the Place to relieve the guard at the Palace. He rose and gazed across the square: "Ah!" he laughed to himself, "my dear uncle, the Red Rubber King, is closely guarded, it seems! I suppose I ought to call upon him. He's at home, judging from the royal standard. Whew! What a bore it is to have been born a prince! If I'd been a policeman or a pork-butcher I daresay I'd have had a much better time. The world never guesses how badly we fellows are handicapped. Men like myself cannot cross the road without some scoundrelly journalist working up a `royal scandal' or a political complication." Then his thoughts ran off into another direction--the direction in which they had constantly flowed during the past week--towards a certain very charming, sweet-faced girl, scarcely out of her teens, who was staying with her father and mother at the Grand Hotel, down on the boulevard.