The opening letter of the batch was much less shadowy—and far more to the point. “My dear Crown Prince,” it ran with cavalier camaraderie, “you are entering the matrimonial state next December. That is to say—perhaps—for ‘there’s many a slip!’ What would the Princess Imogena of Natalia say to a full story of your disgraceful ‘_affaire_’ of the last year or so with a certain lady, whose identity for the time being need not be disclosed. However, my gay and gallant lover, there is no especial need for uneasiness on your part. £50,000 will seal eternally my rosebud lips.” Similar directions to those in the letter that Anthony had just previously read were laid down concerning the transmission of the money. Bathurst looked at his client with judicial thoughtfulness. “Far be it from me,” he murmured, “to trespass on Your Highness’s—shall we say—confidence”—he tapped the letter with his forefinger interrogatively . . . waiting quietly—yet with determination. Mr. Bathurst was nothing, if not delicate in affairs of this nature. A dull red colour suffused the cheeks of the Crown Prince. “I am a man,” he declared with a touch of petulant anger in his tone, “who has always proved a strong and irresistible attraction to the opposite sex. But believe me, I am no Lothario. This incident—for I have no doubt in my mind that I know the ‘_affaire_’ to which reference is made here—was perhaps unfortunate but certainly cannot with truth be termed ‘disgraceful.’ The lady and I parted upon perfectly agreeable terms some months ago now and upon that happening I imagined that the incident was permanently closed. I trust that you will not find it necessary to ask the lady’s name. I am a man of honour.” Anthony pulled at his lip. “Are there any—er—documentary indiscretions relative to the affair still in existence?” The Prince moved uneasily in his chair. “The lady may have kept the letters,” he responded, “women are notoriously careless in these matters.” “Anything else?” queried Anthony. “There was a photograph,” replied His Highness, lamely. “Of you?” “Of the two of us—taken together—unfortunately.” “Dear me,” ventured Anthony, “how indiscreet of you—that does complicate matters, to be sure!” He held out his hand for the three remaining letters and read each one through with care. “These three bear the London post-mark, I notice,” he declared, “there’s nothing to help me much there, Your Highness! Westhampton and Tranfield as we agreed, are adjoining. It is quite feasible therefore that the starting-point of our investigation may lie in that district. Have you any reason to believe that this may be so? Possibly, if you are frank, you can help me.”