When he had finished the Prince fell back in his chair utterly dumbfounded. Then, taking the little packet, he turned it over in his hand. "Great Heavens!" he cried. "You don't know what you've done, Garrett. There's something very funny about all this!" he added quickly. "Wait here, and I'll run along to Clayton," and he left the young man instantly, carrying the packet in his hand. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ An hour later Garrett was driving the Prince and the Rev Thomas Clayton in the car due south, and they were travelling for all they were worth over the hard frozen snow. Of the reason of that sudden flight, Garrett was in complete ignorance. All he knew was that he had orders to creep out to the garage, get the car, and await his companions who, in a few moments, came up out of the shadows. Their big overcoats were in the car, therefore their evening clothes did not trouble them. Then, with as little noise as possible, they ran down a back drive which his Highness, having reconnoitred, knew joined the main Perth road. An idling constable saw them, and wished them good evening. They were guests from the Castle, therefore he allowed them to pass unmolested. The constable would scarcely have done this, however, had he known what they were carrying away with them. They took the road by Dunblane and Stirling, and then straight south into Glasgow, where at two o'clock in the morning, Garrett's two companions alighted in a deserted snow-covered street in the suburbs of the city, and bidding him farewell, gave him orders to get back to London with all haste. The run was a most dismal one. All through the snowstorm next day he kept on, making but poor progress. Next night, Garrett spent alone in Carlisle, and on the following morning started direct for London, being compelled, owing to the abominable state of the roads, to take two days over the run. A week of suspense went by, when one evening he received a note from his Highness, in consequence of which he went to Dover Street, where he found him smoking one of his "Petroffs," as was his wont. "Well, Garrett?" he laughed. "Sit down, and have a drink. I've got eight hundred pounds for you here--your share of the boodle?" "But I don't understand," he exclaimed. "What boodle?" "Of course you don't understand!" he laughed. "Just carry your mind back. You told me the story of little Elfrida's unfortunate secret marriage, and that her husband had a red ring tattooed around his left wrist. That conveyed nothing to you; but it told me much. That afternoon I was walking with the ladies up Glenblair village when, to my surprise, I saw standing at a door no less a person than Jacques Fourrier, or `Le Bravache,' as he's known in Paris, an `international,' like ourselves."