“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member of the house party.” “Of course not,” agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not do, and was not interested to learn. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having Bill Eversleigh, though. He’d be useful to run messages.” “Delighted,” said Lord Caterham, with a shade more animation. “Bill’s quite a decent shot, and Bundle likes him.” “The shooting, of course, is not really important. It’s only the pretext, as it were.” Lord Caterham looked depressed again. “That will be all, then. The Prince, his suite, Bill Eversleigh, Herman Isaacstein——” “Who?” “Herman Isaacstein. The representative of the syndicate I spoke to you about.” “The all British syndicate?” “Yes. Why?” “Nothing—nothing—I only wondered, that’s all. Curious names these people have.” “Then, of course, there ought to be one or two outsiders—just to give the thing a _bona fide_ appearance. Lady Eileen could see to that—young people, uncritical, and with no idea of politics.” “Bundle would attend to that all right, I’m sure.” “I wonder now.” Lomax seemed struck by an idea. “You remember the matter I was speaking about just now?” “You’ve been speaking about so many things.” “No, no, I mean this unfortunate _contretemps_”—— he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper—“the memoirs—Count Stylptitch’s memoirs.” “I think you’re wrong about that,” said Lord Caterham, suppressing a yawn. “People _like_ scandal. Damn it all, I read Reminiscences myself—and enjoy ’em too.” “The point is not whether people will read them or not—they’ll read them fast enough—but their publication at this juncture might ruin everything—everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the Monarchy, and are prepared to offer the Crown to Prince Michael who has the support and encouragement of His Majesty’s Government——” “And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr. Ikey Hermanstein & Co. in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne——” “Caterham, Caterham,” implored Lomax in an agonized whisper. “Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.” “And the point is,” continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though he lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, “that some of Stylptitch’s Reminiscences may upset the apple cart. Tyranny and misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of Government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the blood-sucking Capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing—eh?” Lomax nodded. “And there might be worse still,” he breathed. “Suppose—only suppose that some reference should be made to—to that unfortunate disappearance—you know what I mean.” Lord Caterham stared at him.