The widow stared at him in blank astonishment.
“Are you really the Mr Drummond of whose wonderful feat I read of only the other day in the papers?”
“I won the race at Brooklands the other day,” he said carelessly, “I won it with the car I have here now.”
“And nobody suspects that this Mr Drummond is a prince!” she exclaimed.
“Nobody. I could never afford to go racing in my own name. The Kaiser would not allow it, you know. I have to be so very careful.”
“I quite understand that,” remarked the widow. “But what an excellent motor-driver you must be! What a fine performance your record was! Why, there was half a column in the Morning Post about it!”
“It was not any more difficult, or more dangerous, than some of the long quick runs I’ve made on the Continent. From Rome up to Berlin, for instance, or from Warsaw to Ostend, I’m racing again at Brooklands next week.”
“And may I come and see you?” she asked. “Do let me. I will, of course, keep your secret, and not tell a soul.”
He hesitated.
“You see nobody knows but yourself and Garrett, my chauffeur – not even Clayton. He’s a good fellow, but parsons,” he laughed, “are bad hands at keeping secrets. Too much tea and gossip spoils them, I suppose.”
“But I’ll swear to remain secret. Only let me know the day and hour, and I’ll go south and see you. I should love to see a motor-race. I’ve never seen one in my life.”
So at last, with seeming reluctance, his Highness, having taken the flattered widow into his confidence, promised on condition that she said nothing to anybody, she should know the day and hour when to be at Brooklands.
As the warm summer days slipped by, it became more and more apparent to the Parson that his friend, the widow, had become entirely fascinated by the lighthearted easy-going prince. She, on her part, recognised how, because of her intimate acquaintance with his Highness, and the fact that he honoured her table with his presence sometimes at dinner, every one in the hotel courted her friendship in the hope that they might be introduced to the cousin of the Kaiser.
Prince and Parson were, truth to tell, playing a very big bluff. Max had taken up his quarters at the Spa Hydro, and though meeting his two accomplices frequently in the streets, passed them by as strangers.
Now and then the Parson went up to smoke with the Prince after the wealthy widow had retired, and on such occasions the conversation was of such a character that, if she had overheard it, she would have been considerably surprised.
One evening, when they were together, the valet, Charles, entered, closing the door carefully after him.
“Well,” asked his master, “what’s the news?”
“I’ve just left Max down in the town,” replied the clean-shaven servant. “He got back from Milnthorpe Hall this morning. He went there as an electrical engineer, sent by Cameron Brothers, of London, at the old woman’s request, and examined the whole place with a view to a lighting installation. He reports that, beyond a few good paintings – mostly family portraits of the original owners – and a little bric-à-brac, there’s nothing worth having. The old woman keeps her jewels in the bank at York, as well as greater part of the plate. What’s in general use is all electro. Besides, there are burglar-alarms all over the place.”
“Then the old woman’s a four-flush!” declared the Parson tossing away his cigarette angrily. “I thought she’d got some good stuff there. That was my impression from the outside.”
“Afraid of thieves, evidently,” remarked the Prince. “She’s a lone woman, and according to what you say, the only men in the house are the Italian butler, and a young footman.”
“If there’s nothing there, what’s the use troubling over her further?”
His Highness puffed thoughtfully at his “Petroff.” He was reflecting deeply, bitterly repenting that he had been such a fool as to tell her the truth regarding his motor-racing nomade-guerre. He could not afford to allow her to become his enemy. To abandon her at once would surely be a most injudicious action.
“At present let’s postpone our decision, Tommy,” he exclaimed at last. “There may be a way to success yet. You, Charles, see Max to-morrow, and tell him to go to London and lie low there. I’ll wire him when I want him. You have some money. Give him a tenner.”
And the man addressed soon afterwards withdrew.
The events of the next two days showed plainly that the original plans formulated by the Rev. Thomas Clayton had been abandoned.
The widow, with some trepidation, invited the Prince and his clerical friend to be her guests at Milnthorpe, but they made excuses, much to her chagrin. The exemplary vicar was compelled to return to his Bayswater parish, while the Prince was also recalled to London to race at Brooklands, making the journey, of course, on the car.
Thus Mrs Edmondson found herself left alone in the “Majestic,” with her fellow guests full of wonder at what had really occurred.
The widow, however, had been buoyed up by a few whispered words of the Prince at the moment of his departure.
“Preserve my secret as you promised, Mrs Edmondson, and come to London one day next week. You always go to the Langham – you say. I’ll call on you there next Friday. Au revoir!”
And he lifted his cap, shook her hand, and mounted at the wheel of the big mustard-coloured “racer.”
On the day appointed he called at the Langham and found her installed in one of the best suites, prepared to receive him.
He told her that, on the morrow at noon, he was to race at Brooklands against Carlier, the well-known Frenchman, both cars being of the same horse-power. The distance was one hundred miles.
She was delighted, and promised to observe every secrecy, and come down to witness the struggle. He remained to tea, chatting with her pleasantly. When he rose and bade her adieu, she sat alone for a long time thinking.
Was she dreaming? Or was it really a fact that he, Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, had, for a few moments, held her hand tenderly? The difference of their ages was not so much, she argued – about twelve years. She was twelve years older. What did that matter, after all?
If she, plain Mrs Edmondson, of Milnthorpe, became Princess Albert of Hesse-Holstein! Phew! The very thought of it took her breath away.
She was a clever scheming woman, and had always been, ever since her school-girl days. She flattered herself that she could read the innermost secrets of a man’s heart.
Yes. She was now convinced. This man, who had reposed confidence in her and told her of his dual personality, was actually in love with her. If he did not marry her, it certainly should not be her fault.
With that decision she called Marie, her French maid, and passed into her room to dress for dinner with her sister-in-law and her husband – a barrister – with the theatre and Savoy to follow.
Next day at noon she was down at Brooklands, where a number of motor enthusiasts and men “in the trade” had assembled. She saw a tall, slim figure in grey overalls and an ugly helmet-shaped cap with dark glasses in the eye-holes, mount upon a long grey car, while a mechanic in blue cotton and a short jacket buttoned tightly, gave a last look round to see that all was working properly. The man mounted the step, the signal was given by the starters, and the two cars, pitted against each other, both grey, with huge numbers painted on the front of their bonnets, came past her like a flash, while the mechanics swung themselves half out, in order to balance the cars as they went round the bend.
After the first two or three laps the pace became terrific, and as the widow sat watching, she saw the Prince incognito, his head bent to the wind, a slim, crouched figure at the wheel driving the long car at a pace which no express train could travel.
At first he slowly forged ahead, but presently, after twenty minutes, the Frenchman gradually crept up, inch by inch. It was the test of the two cars – a comparatively new English make against a French firm.
Dick Drummond had many friends on the course. He was popular everywhere, and at regular intervals as he passed the stand where the widow was seated, a crowd of young, smart, clean-shaven men shouted to his encouragement.
Each time, with slight dust flying behind, he went round the bend, Garrett, in his dirty blue clothes, swung himself out to balance the car, while to the Prince himself all has become a blur. Travelling at that terrific pace, the slightest swerve would mean a terrible accident, therefore, he had no eyes save for the track before him. Garrett was busy every moment with the lubrication, and at the same time both feared tyre-troubles, the bugbear of the racing motorist. Such speed sets up tremendous friction and consequent heat, therefore tyre-bursts are likely, and if a tyre does “go off” while a car is travelling at that pace, the consequences may be very serious.
Many a bad accident had occurred on that track, and more than one good man had lost his life. Yet the Prince, sportsman that he was, knowing that the widow’s eyes were upon him, set his teeth hard and drove until once again he gradually drew away from his opponent, the renowned Carlier.
There were present representatives of the daily and the motor press. The race would be chronicled everywhere on the morrow. If the Frenchman won, it would be an advertisement worth many thousands of pounds to the firm for whom he was driving.
To-day every maker of motor-cars vies with his competitors, and strives strenuously to obtain the greatest advertisement. Like so many other things about us, alas! it is not the quality of the car, or of the materials used, but a car’s excellence seems to be judged by its popularity. And that popularity is a mere matter of advertisement.
The best car ever turned out by the hand of man would never be looked at if not advertised and “boomed.”
The French driver, a man who had won a dozen races, including the Circuit of the Ardennes, and the Florio Cup, was trying to get an advertisement for the particular company for whom he was the professional racer, while Dick Drummond was merely trying his English car against the Paris-built variety.
The whirr-r was constant, now approaching and now receding, as the two cars went round and round the track with monotonous regularity. Experts, men interested in various makes, stood leaning over the rails making comment.
It was agreed on every hand that Drummond was a marvel of cool level-headedness. His driving was magnificent, and yet he had apparently nothing to gain, even if he won the race. He was not financially interested, as far as was known, in the make of car he drove. He was merely a man of means, who had taken up motor-car racing as a hobby.
The Frenchman drove well, and the race, after the first three-quarters of an hour, was a keenly contested one. First Drummond would lead, and then Carlier. Once Drummond spurted and got half a lap ahead, then with the Frenchman putting on speed, he fell behind again till they were once more neck and neck.
Time after time they shot past the widow, who had eyes only for her champion. Her blue sunshade was up, and as she stood there alone she hoped against hope that the Prince – the man who had told her his secret – would prove the victor.
When he was in front, loud shouts rent the air from the men interested in the make of car he was driving, while, on the other hand, if the Frenchman gained the vantage the applause from his partisans was vociferous.
Over all was a cloud of light dust, while the wind created by the cars as they rushed past fanned the cheeks of the woman watching her champion with such deep interest.
A group of men near her were discussing him.
“Drummond is a magnificent driver,” one remarked in admiration. “Look at him coming up now. Cagno never drove like that, even in his very best race.”
“I wonder what interest he has in the Company? He surely wouldn’t race for the mere excitement,” remarked another.
“Interest!” cried a third man – and, truth to tell, he was Max Mason – “Why he has the option to buy up the whole of the concern, lock, stock, and barrel. I heard so yesterday. The company gave it to him a fortnight ago. Lawrence, the secretary, told me so. Why, by Jove! if he wins, the fortune of that make of car is secured. I suppose he has capital behind him, and will buy up the whole concern. I only wish I were in it. A tenth share would be a fortune.”
“You’re right,” remarked the first man. “Dick Drummond is a shrewd chap. If he wins he’ll make a pot of money on the deal – you see. It’ll be the biggest advertisement that a car has ever had in all the whole annals of motoring.”
Mrs Edmondson listened to all this in silence. She quite understood. The Prince, in his character of Dick Drummond, had entered into the affair with a view to a big financial deal – the purchase of the important company who were responsible for the car he was driving.
The car in question, be it said, was the actual mustard-coloured one in which she had careered about the West Riding, although she did not recognise it in its garb of dirty slate-grey.
She found it quite fascinating, standing there watching those two cars with their powerful roaring engines striving for the mastery, as mile after mile was covered at that frightful break-neck speed. Her heart was with the man bent over his wheel, whom every one believed to be a commoner, and whom she alone knew to be a prince.
And he, the cousin of the Kaiser, had actually squeezed her hand!
As the end of the race approached the excitement increased. The onlookers grouped themselves in little knots, watching critically for any sign of weakness in one or the other. But there was none. Carlier was as dogged as his opponent, and kept steadily on until at the eightieth mile he gradually overhauled the Englishman.
There were still twenty miles to cover. But Dick Drummond was behind, quite an eighth of a lap. Carlier had apparently been husbanding all his strength and power. The car he was driving was certainly a splendid one, and was behaving magnificently. Would it beat the English make?
As the last few laps were negotiated at a frightful speed the knots of onlookers became more and more enthusiastic. Some cheered Dick until they were hoarse, while others, with an interest in the car Carlier was driving, cried “Bravo! Bravo!”
The blood ran quickly in the widow’s veins. Ninety-five miles had been covered, and still Drummond was behind more than half a lap. She watched his crouching figure, with head set forward, his position never altering, his chin upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the track before him. Garrett seemed ever at work, touching this and that at the order of his master, whose face was wholly protected from the cutting wind by the ugly mask, save mouth and chin.
As the board showed ninety-seven miles he came at a fearful pace past the spot where Mrs Edmondson had again risen from her seat in her excitement. He was spurting, and so valiantly did he struggle, getting every ounce out of the hundred horse-power of his car, that he slowly, very slowly, crept towards the flying Frenchman.
“Keep on, Drummond!” shrieked the men, taking off their caps and waving them. “Don’t be beaten, old man!”
But he could not hear them above the terrible roar of his exhaust. No express train ever designed had run so quickly as he was now travelling. Official timekeepers were standing, chronometers in hand, calmly watching, and judges were making ready to declare the winner.
Every spectator stood breathless. It was really marvellous that one hundred miles could have been covered in that brief space of time while they had been watching.
Again, and yet again, the two cars flashed by, yet still Dick lagged behind.
Suddenly, however, they came round for the last lap, and as they passed the watchful widow, the Englishman like a shot from a gun, passed his opponent and won by twenty yards.
When he pulled up, after having run again round the course to slacken speed, he almost fell into the arms of the crowd of men who came up to congratulate him.
Mrs Edmondson had left her post of vantage and stood near by. She overheard one of them – it was Mason – say:
“By Jove, Dick! This is a wonderful run. You’ve broken the five, ten, and hundred mile records! The fortune of your car is made?”
Then the victor turned to his opponent and shook his hand, saying in French:
“Thank you, my dear Carlier, for a very excellent race.”
The widow, after a brief chat, returned to town by rail, while Garrett drove his master back to Dover Street.
That night his Highness dined with the widow at the Langham, and she bestowed upon him fulsome praise regarding his prowess.
“What make of car is yours?” she asked while they were lingering over their dessert in the widow’s private sitting-room.
“It’s the St. Christopher,” he answered.
“St. Christopher!” she echoed. “What a funny name to give a car!”
“It may appear so at first sight, but St. Christopher has been taken by motorists on the Continent as their patron saint – the saint who for ages has guarded the believer against the perils of the way. So it’s really appropriate, after all.”
“I heard them say that you’ve made the fortune of the car by your success to-day,” she remarked.
“Yes,” he answered carelessly. “Anybody who cared to put in a few thousands now would receive a magnificent return for their money – twenty-five per cent, within a year.”
“You think so?” she asked interestedly. “Think, Mrs Edmondson?” he echoed. “I’m sure of it! Why, the St. Christopher now holds the world’s record, and you know what that means. The makers will begin to receive far more orders than they can ever execute. Look at the Napier, the Itala, the Fiat, and others. The same thing has happened. The St. Christopher, however, is in the hands of two men only, and they, unfortunately, lack capital.”
“You should help them, if it’s such a good thing.”
“I’m doing so. Now I’ve won the race I shall put in fifteen thousand – perhaps twenty. They are seeing me to-morrow. As a matter of fact,” he added, lowering his tone, “I mean to hold controlling interest in the concern. It’s far too good a thing to miss.”
The fat widow, with her black bodice cut low, and the circle of diamonds sparkling upon her red neck, sipped her wine slowly, but said nothing.
His Highness did not refer to this matter again. He was a past-master of craft and cunning.
Later on, the Rev. Thomas Clayton was announced, and the trio spent quite a pleasant evening, which concluded by the lady inviting them both to Milnthorpe the following week.
At first the Prince again hesitated. The widow sat in breathless expectancy. At all hazards she must get his Highness to visit her. It would be known all over the county. She would pay a guinea each to the fashionable papers to announce the fact, for it would be worth so very much to her in the county.
“I fear, Mrs Edmondson, that I must go to Berlin next week,” replied the Prince. “I’m sure it’s very good of you, but the Emperor has summoned me regarding some affairs of my brother Karl.”
“Oh! why can’t you postpone your visit, and come and see me first?” she urged in her most persuasive style. “Mr Clayton, do urge the Prince to come to me,” she added.
“You can surely go to Germany a week later, Prince,” exclaimed the cleric. “Where’s the Kaiser just now?”
“At Kiel, yachting.”
“Then he may not be in Berlin next week?”
“He has appointed to meet me at Potsdam. His Majesty never breaks an engagement.”
“Then you will break yours, Prince, and go with me to Milnthorpe,” declared the Parson.
“Yes,” cried Mrs Edmondson; “and we will have no further excuses, will we, Mr Clayton?”
So his Highness was forced to accept, and next day the wily widow returned to Yorkshire to make preparations for the visit which was to shed such social lustre upon her house.
Three
The Prince and the Parson held several long interviews in the two days that followed, and it was apparent from one meeting which took place, and at which both Mason and Garrett were present, that some clever manoeuvre was intended. The quartette held solemn councils in the Prince’s chambers, and there was much discussion, and considerable laughter.
The latter, it appeared, was in consequence of Max’s recollection of the wonderful record of his Highness at Brooklands.
On the day appointed both Prince and parson, attended by the faithful Charles, left King’s Cross by train for Whitby, Garrett having started alone on the “forty,” with orders to travel by way of Doncaster and York, and arrive at Milnthorpe by noon next day.
The fine old place was, the Prince found, quite a comfortable residence. The widow did the honours gracefully, welcoming her guests warmly.
When the two friends found themselves alone in the Prince’s room, his Highness whispered to the exemplary vicar:
“I don’t like the look of that Italian butler, Tommy. Do you know I’ve a very strange fancy?”
“Of what?”
“That I’ve met that fellow before, somewhere or other.”
“I sincerely hope not,” was the clergyman’s response.
“Where I’ve met him I can’t remember. By Jove! It’ll be awkward for us if he recollects me.”
“Then we’ll have to watch him. I wonder if – ”
And the Parson crossed noiselessly to the bedroom door and opened it suddenly.
As he did so there was the distinct sound of some one scuffling round the corner in the corridor. Both men detected it.
There had been an eavesdropper! They were suspected!
At dinner that night the pair cast furtive glances at the thin, clean-shaven face of the middle-aged Italian butler, whose head was prematurely bald, but whose manners as a servant were perfect. Ferrini was the name by which his mistress addressed him, and it was apparent that he was very devoted to her. The young footman was English – a Cockney, by his twang.
In the old panelled room, with its long family portraits and its old carved buffet laden with well-kept silver – or rather electro-plate, as the pair already knew – a well-cooked dinner was served amid flowers and cunningly-concealed lights. The table was a round one, and the only other guest was a tall, fair-haired young girl, a Miss Maud Mortimer, the daughter of a neighbouring squire. She was a loosely built, slobbering miss, with a face like a wax doll, and a slight impediment in her speech.
At first she seemed shy in the presence of the Kaiser’s cousin, but presently, when her awkwardness wore off, she grew quite merry.
To the two visitors the meal was a perfect success. Those dark watchful eyes of the Italian, however, marred their pleasure considerably. Even the Parson was now convinced that the man knew something.
What was it? Where had the fellow met the Prince before? Was it under suspicious circumstances – or otherwise?
Next day Garrett arrived with the car, while to the White House Hotel at Whitby came a quietly dressed and eminently respectable golfer, who gave his name as Harvey, but with whom we are already familiar under the name of Mason.
The afternoon was a hot, breathless one, but towards five o’clock the Prince invited his hostess to go for a run on the “forty” – repainted, since its recent return from the Continent, dark blue with a coronet and cipher upon its panels.
Garrett who had had a look round the widow’s “sixty” Mercédès, in confidence told his master that it was all in order, and that the chauffeur was an experienced man.
With the widow and her two guests seated together behind, Garrett drove the car next day along the pretty road by Pickering down to Malton, returning by way of Castle Howard. The pace they travelled was a fast one, and the widow, turning to his Highness, said:
“Really, Prince, to motor with you is quite a new experience. My man would never dare to go at such a rate as this for fear of police-traps.”
“I’m pretty lucky in escaping them,” responded the good-looking adventurer, glancing meaningly at the man in black clerical overcoat and cap.
“The Prince once ran from Boulogne to Nice in twenty-eight hours on his St. Christopher,” remarked the Rev. Thomas. “And in winter, too.”
“Marvellous!” declared the widow, adjusting her pale-blue motor-veil, new for the occasion. “There’s no doubt a great future before that car – especially after the record at Brooklands.”
“Rather!” exclaimed the rubicund vicar. “I’m only a poor parson, but if I had a little capital I should certainly put it in. I have inside knowledge, as they say in the City, I believe, Mrs Edmondson,” he laughed.
“From the Prince?”
“Of course. He intends having the largest interest in the concern. They’ve had eight orders for racers in the last six days. A record at Brooklands means a fortune to a manufacturer.”
His Highness was silent, while the self-satisfied widow discussed the future of the eight-cylinder St. Christopher.
Returning to the Hall, Ferrini came forth bowing to his mistress, and casting a distinctly suspicious glance at the two visitors. Both men noticed it, and were not a little apprehensive. They had played some clever games, but knew not from one moment to the other when some witness might not point a finger at them in open denunciation.
While the Prince was dressing for dinner Charles said:
“That butler fellow is far too inquisitive for my liking. I found him in here an hour ago, and I’m positive he had been trying to unlock your crocodile suit-case. He made an excuse that he had come to see whether you had a siphon of soda. But I actually caught him bending over your bag.”
The Prince remained grave and silent.
“Where have we met that fellow before? I can’t remember.”
“Neither can I. His face is somehow familiar. I’m sure we’ve seen him somewhere!”
“That’s what the Parson says. Write to Max at Whitby, and tell him to come over on some pretext or other and get a glance at the man. Post the letter yourself to-night.”
“Perhaps the fellow is afraid of his plate,” the valet exclaimed in an undertone, laughing.
“He needn’t be. It’s all ‘B’ electro – not worth taking away in a dung-cart. The only thing I’ve seen is the old woman’s necklet, and that she keeps in her room, I fancy. If the sparklers are real they’re worth a couple of thousand to the Dutchman.”
“They are certainly real. She’s got them out of the bank in your honour. Her maid told me so to-day. And she means, I believe, to give a big dinner-party for some of the county people to meet you.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked his master quickly.
“The cook told the footman, who told me. The housekeeper to-day ordered a lot of things from London, and to-morrow the invitations are to be sent out.”
“Are people coming here to dine and sleep?”
“Yes. Eight bedrooms are to be prepared.”
“Then keep an eye on that confounded Italian. Send that letter to Max, and tell him to reply to you in cipher. His letter might fall into somebody else’s hands. Max might also inquire into what the police arrangements are about here – where the village constable lives, and where is the nearest police-station.”
“Couldn’t you send me in to Whitby, and I’d give him all instructions, and tell him the state of affairs?”
“Yes. Go in the morning. Garrett will take you in on the car. Say you’re going to buy me a book I want.”
And with that his Highness finished tying his cravat with care, and descended into the pretty drawing-room, where the widow, lounging picturesquely beneath the yellow-shaded lamp, awaited him.
That evening the Parson, who complained of headache on account of the sun during a walk in the morning, retired to his room early, and until past eleven the Prince sat alone with his fat and flattered hostess.
As she lolled back in the big silk-covered easy-chair, slowly fanning herself and trying to look her best, he, calm, calculating person that he was, had his eyes fixed upon her sparkling necklet, wondering how much the old Jew in Amsterdam would give for it.
“What a splendid ornament!” he remarked, as though he had noticed it for the first time.
“Do you like it?” she asked with a smile. “It belonged to my husband’s family.”
“Beautiful!” remarked his Highness, bending closer to examine it, for he had the eye of a connoisseur, and saw that it was probably French work of the eighteenth century.
“Many people have admired it,” she went on. “My husband was very fond of jewellery, and gave me quite a quantity. I never keep it here, however, for a year ago an attempt was made to break into the place.”
“So you keep them in a safe deposit?” he exclaimed; “and quite right, too. Diamonds are always a sore temptation to burglars.”
“I’m asking a few people to dinner next Wednesday, and am sending to the bank in York for some of my ornaments,” remarked the widow. “I hope they’ll be safe here. Since the attempt by thieves, I confess I’ve been awfully nervous.”
“Oh, they’ll be safe enough,” declared the audacious adventurer, taking a fresh Russian cigarette from his case.
“I hope so. I have invited a few people – the best in the county – to meet your Highness. I hope you won’t object.”
“Not at all,” he replied affably. “Only, as you know, I much prefer to remain incognito.”
“You’re one of the most modest men I’ve ever met,” she declared, in a soft voice, intended to be seductive.
“I find life as a commoner much more agreeable than as a prince,” he responded. “In incognito, I always enjoy freedom of speech and freedom of action, which, as a royalty, it is impossible to obtain.”
The widow’s mind was ever active. She was straining her utmost to fascinate her guest. The difference in their ages was really not so very great. Her secret hope was that she could induce him to make a declaration of love. Fancy her, plain Mrs Edmondson, ridiculed by the county and only tolerated by a certain section of it, suddenly becoming a princess!
Milnthorpe was a beautiful old place, but to her it was but a sepulchre. She hated it because, while in residence there, she was buried alive. She preferred Monte Carlo, Paris, or even Cairo.
“Then the dinner-party will be a very smart one?” he remarked for want of something better to say. “And my hostess herself will surely be the smartest of them all,” he added with a bow and an intent to flatter.