“As long as you maintain the strictest secrecy—you may act in whatever way you choose. Personally, I shall let nothing stand in my way. And if you are successful—rest assured that your services will never be forgotten. I am a Vilnberg—we have long memories for those who serve us well. Only remember—time is getting short. December is not so very far ahead.” He bowed, turned pompously and Anthony heard his decisive step descending the stairs. Walking to the window, Bathurst watched the magnificently-liveried chauffeur open the door of the car—usher his master to his seat therein with perfect obsequiousness, then drive off quickly and almost noiselessly. With a semi-humorous shrug of the shoulders Anthony returned to his desk. Then he read through the five threatening letters again—with even more care and attention than before. After a little time thus expended, one fact began to stand out clearly from the correspondence and make a deep impression upon his mind. The threats contained in the letters were all indefinite—limited to the “telling of a story,” to “forwarding information of a most interesting and important nature,” “to acquainting a certain Royal lady with highly-important facts,” “to extending a circle of epistolary acquaintance.” He was unable to find any mention whatever of the possession for instance, of such a definite thing as a photograph—also there was no hint of the existence of compromising letters. “Seems to me,” muttered Anthony to himself, “that the strongest weapon this letter-writing gentleman possesses is the Crown Prince’s conscience—and he probably knows it.” He reached down for his A.B.C. and quickly flicked the pages for Westhampton. Then he turned back to Tranfield, which place he discovered was served at intervals by a local train service from Westhampton. “I can’t run down before next Friday,” he said to himself after consulting his diary, “it’s impossible for me to touch it till then.” He filled the bowl of his pipe and watched the flame of the match curl fiercely round the brown shreds of tobacco, “What happened exactly,” he asked himself, “at the Hunt Ball at Westhampton a year ago last February?” Chapter III Chief-Inspector Bannister Gets a “Busman’s Holiday”