“A police inspector. There is no time to lose. Monsieur Greig, I want you to do an office for me. Here is a letter that must find its way into the hands of the Prince. You will give it to him. You have seen that he passes the café at the same hour every day. Well, it is the easiest thing in the world for you to go up to him and hand him this. No more's to be done by you.” “But why should I particularly give him the letter? Why not send it by the Swiss?” “That is my affair,” cried the priest testily. “The Prince knows you--that is important. He knows the Swiss too, and that is why I have the Swiss with me as a second string to my bow, but I prefer that he should have this letter from the hand of M. Andrew Greig's nephew. 'Tis a letter from his Royal Highness's most intimate friend.” I took the letter into my hand, and was amazed to see that the address was in a writing exactly corresponding to that of a billet now in the bosom of my coat! What could Miss Walkinshaw and the Prince have of correspondence to be conducted on such roundabout lines? Still, if the letter was hers I must carry it! “Very well,” I agreed, and went out to meet the Prince. The sun was blazing; the street was full of the quality in their summer clothing. His Royal Highness came stepping along at the customary hour more gay than ever. I made bold to call myself to his attention with my hat in my hand. “I beg your Royal Highness's pardon,” I said in English, “but I have been instructed to convey this letter to you.” He swept his glance over me; pausing longest of all on my red shoes, and took the letter from my hand. He gave a glance at the direction, reddened, and bit his lip. “Let me see now, what is the name of the gentleman who does me the honour?” “Greig,” I answered. “Paul Greig.” “Ah!” he cried, “of course: I have had friends in Monsieur's family. _Charmé, Monsieur, de faire votre connaissance_. M. Andrew Greig-” “Was my uncle, your Royal Highness?” “So! a dear fellow, but, if I remember rightly, with a fatal gift of irony. 'Tis a quality to be used with tact. I hope you have tact, M. Greig. Your good uncle once did me the honour to call me a--what was it now?--a gomeral.” “It was very like my uncle, that, your Royal Highness,” I said. “But I know that he loved you and your cause.” “I daresay he did, Monsieur; I daresay he did,” said the Prince, flushing, and with a show of pleasure at my speech. “I have learned of late that the fair tongue is not always the friendliest. In spite of it all I liked M. Andrew Greig. I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing Monsieur Greig's nephew soon again. _Au plaisir de vous revoir!_” And off he went, putting the letter, unread, into his pocket. When I went back to the Cerf d'Or and told Hamilton all that had passed, he was straightway plunged into the most unaccountable melancholy. CHAPTER XXI THE ATTEMPT ON THE PRINCE