“I couldn’t swear to that. I might if I saw him in evening-dress. But he was some distance down the ballroom when the introduction took place and at other times I only saw his back—I tell you I wasn’t interested in the man—curse him!” Mr. Bathurst leant across the table. “I should like to ask you something, Mr. Warburton.” “What’s that?” replied Warburton discourteously. Anthony ignored the discourtesy. He made allowances for Alan Warburton’s unsettled condition. “Do you know a lady—niece of the late Major Carruthers, I believe—a Miss Daphne Carruthers?” “I’ve met her—I can’t say that I know her.” “Cast your memory back to that February evening—was this Daphne Carruthers present at the Hunt Ball?” “Yes, she was. I distinctly remember seeing her.” “Good! Now tell me again. Did she meet or dance with the Crown Prince of Clorania? To the best of your knowledge that is.” “As far as I know, certainly not.” “You never saw them together?” “No, I saw the Crown Prince with Major Carruthers. And as I said, Major Carruthers introduced Sheila to him, I’m positive of it. I’m almost certain he came to the Ball in the company of Major Carruthers.” “Would you be prepared to assert that he didn’t come with a lady?” “Most certainly I would!” Warburton was most emphatic on the point. “Don’t you think it strange, then,” went on Anthony, “that, although this distinguished guest came with Major Carruthers as you so positively declare, he never made the acquaintance of Daphne Carruthers—the Major’s own niece?” “I don’t think about it. I don’t see what any of these questions has got to do with my story.” “Don’t you?” interjected Bannister, unable to conceal a note of triumphant sarcasm; “don’t you? Would you be interested to know that the Crown Prince whom you are accusing of the murder of Miss Delaney was in Seabourne for the purpose of meeting Miss Carruthers?” “Who says so?” blazed Warburton. “I do,” rapped Bannister. “If you want to know, I left them there. They were at the ‘Hotel Cassandra’—I saw them myself—Mr. Bathurst here can support me—so you needn’t start arguing about it.” Warburton went white as a sheet. But he quickly recovered himself. “What’s all this talk about Daphne Carruthers—anyway? I don’t quite get in on that. Why did the ‘Seabourne Chronicle’ of Saturday last say that the police had every justification for their first attempt at identification? Why was Daphne Carruthers supposed to have been murdered?” “And where did you see the ‘Seabourne Chronicle’?” thundered Bannister. “In Seabourne, of course,” stormed back Warburton. “Where do you imagine I saw it—in the Westhampton Free Library, or that I found it in a railway carriage?” “Oh, then,” said the Inspector, with an ominous quietness, “so you’ve been recuperating at Seabourne too. Seems mighty popular just at the moment as a health-resort! What’s its special attraction?”