His Royal Highness sprang to his feet as he finished his story. His excitement and anxiety had temporarily mastered him. He approached Anthony and his face was white, shaking and uncontrolled. “Mr. Bathurst,” he exclaimed, “when I called upon you at the end of last week you will remember I refused to divulge the name of the lady in the case—I told you that I was a man of honour.” His voice shook with emotion. “Now I feel myself as compelled to reveal it, even though at the risk of injuring myself. Fate has taken a hand in the game, Mr. Bathurst. The lady’s name was Daphne Carruthers—and I learn from the Press this morning and also from a medley of cursed, gossiping tongues in this infernal seaside town—that she was murdered here in Seabourne—yesterday.” His voice was now completely hoarse. With grief or with anxiety, Anthony was unable to decide. But he went on. Standing erect in the middle of the room, he raised his right-hand dramatically over his head. “And I myself, it is more than possible will be the ‘suspect.’ I would not have had such a terrible affair happen for the world. It will ruin me.” He gestured helplessly in Mr. Bathurst’s direction, then sank into his chair again—his head in his hands. “When did you last see Miss Carruthers?” demanded the latter. “On the evening of Wednesday—we dined together—early—settled our little differences, and parted—to go our own ways and to lead our own lives. We understood each other.” “You had possession, then, I take it, of the photograph?” remarked Anthony. “But certainly—I had come to get it. It is destroyed.” “And the letters——!” “We burned them together,” rejoined the Crown Prince. “Where?” “In a wood that lies off the road to Froam.” Anthony looked grave. “The letters you had threatening blackmail—those you left with me—what had Miss Carruthers to say regarding them?” “But that is remarkable! I taxed her with them—she denied all knowledge of them.” “Did you believe her?” The Crown Prince shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “Can a man ever believe a woman with whom he’s once been in love?” Anthony shot a quick glance at him. He was not an amorist and supremely contemptuous of the professional philanderer. To him, “_le pays du Tendre_” was far too sacred a country for such light imaginings. “You’re more qualified to answer that question than I, Your Highness. _Did you believe her?_” The Crown Prince sulkily reflected for a brief moment. “Well—on the whole—I think I did. Her denial of the affair seemed to me to be transparently honest.” “Tell me,” said Anthony, “was it, as far as you know, the intention of Miss Carruthers, to return to her home at once—or did she intend to stay anywhere else in Seabourne?” “She intended to return to London by the last train on Wednesday evening—she told me so.” “Of course,” suggested Anthony, “her plans may have been altered—an attack of violent tooth-ache, for instance, has a lot of force behind it.”