A quarter of an hour later, with Garrett--in his grey and red livery--
seated on the step, and the widow up beside him, the Prince drew the
great ugly yellow car out of the hotel entrance, while the Parson,
standing amid the crowd of jealous onlookers, waved his hand in merry
farewell.
In a few moments the siren screamed, and the open exhaust roared and
spluttered as they crossed the Stray, taking the road through Starbeck
to Knaresborough, thence south by Little Ribston to Wetherby.
Having turned off to the left through the town, they came upon a
straight open road where, for the first time his Highness, accustomed as
he was to all the vagaries of his powerful car, put on a "move" over the
ten miles into York, a run at such a pace that the widow clung to her
seat with both hands, almost breathless.
She had never travelled half so fast before in all her life.
In York they ran round by the station past the old grey minster, then
out again through Clifton, as far as Shipton Moor, turning up to
Beningborough station, and thence into the by-roads to Newton-upon-Ouse,
in the direction of Knaresborough.
Once or twice while they tore along regardless of speed-limits or of
police-traps, the powerful engine throbbing before them, she turned to
his Highness and tried to make some remarks. But it was only a sorry
attempt. Travelling at fifty miles an hour over those white roads,
without a glass screen, or even body to the car, was very exhilarating,
and after the first few minutes of fright, at the tearing pace, she
seemed to delight in it. Curious though it is, yet it is nevertheless a
fact that women delight in a faster pace in a car than men, when once
the first sensation of danger has passed.
When they were safely back again in the hall of the hotel she turned to
him to express her great delight at the run.
"Your car is, indeed, a magnificent one, your Highness. I've never been
on a racer before," she said, "but it was truly delightful. I never had
a moment's anxiety, for you are such a sure and clever driver."
Her eye had been from time to time upon the speedometer, and she had
noted the terrific rate at which they had now and then travelled,
especially upon any downward incline.
The Prince, on his part, was playing the exquisite courtier. Had she
been a girl of twenty he could not have paid "old crow" more attention.
As he was dressing for dinner with the aid of the faithful Charles, the
Parson entered, and to him he gave an accurate description of the run,
and of the rather amorous attitude the obese widow had assumed towards
him.
"Good, my dear boy," exclaimed the urbane cleric, "I told you that she's
the most perfect specimen of the snob we've ever met."
A week went by--a pleasant week, during which Mrs Edmondson, her nose
now an inch higher in the air than formerly, went out daily with the
Prince and his chauffeur for runs around the West Riding.
One afternoon they ran over to Ripon, and thence across to the fine old
ruins of Fountains Abbey. Like many women of her class and character,
the buxom lady delighted in monastic ruins, and as the pair strolled
about in the great, roofless transept of the Abbey she commenced an
enthusiastic admiration of its architecture and dimensions. Though
living at Whitby she had, curiously enough, never before visited the
place.
"Crowland, in Lincolnshire is very fine," she remarked, "but this is far
finer. Yet we have nothing in England to compare with Pavia, near
Milan. Have you ever been there, Prince?"
"Only through the station," his Highness replied. Truth to tell he was
not enthusiastic over ruins. He was a very modern up-to-date young man.
They idled through the ruins, where the sunshine slanted through the
gaunt broken windows, and the cawing rooks flapped lazily in and out.
One or two other visitors were there besides themselves, and among them
a lonely pale-faced man in grey, wearing gold pince-nez who, with hands
behind his back, was studying the architecture and the various
outbuildings.
The Prince and his companion brushed close by him in the old refectory,
when he glanced up suddenly at a window.
His face was familiar enough to his Highness, who, however, passed him
by as a stranger.
It was Max Mason, only yesterday returned from Copenhagen.
That afternoon the widow grew confidential with her princely cavalier in
motor clothes, while he, on his part, encouraged her.
"Ah!" he sighed presently as they were walking slowly together in a
distant part of the great ruined fabric. "You have no idea how very
lonely a man can really be, even though he may be born a prince. More
often than not I'm compelled to live _incognito_, for I have ever upon
me the fierce glare of publicity. Every movement, every acquaintance I
make, even my most private affairs are pried into and chronicled by
those confounded press fellows. And for that reason I'm often compelled
to hold aloof from people with whom I could otherwise be on terms of
intimate friendship. Half my time and ingenuity is spent upon the
adoption of subterfuges to prevent people from discovering who I really
am. And then those infernal illustrated papers, both here and on the
Continent, are eternally republishing my photograph."
"It really must be most annoying, Prince," remarked the widow
sympathetically.
"I often adopt the name of Burchell-Laing," he said, "and sometimes--
well," and he paused, looking her straight in the face. "I wonder, Mrs
Edmondson, whether I might confide in you--I mean whether you would keep
my secret?"
"I hope I may be permitted to call myself your Highness's friend," she
said in a calm, impressive tone. "Whatever you may tell me will not, I
assure you, pass my lips."
"I am delighted to have such a friend as yourself," he declared
enthusiastically. "Somehow, though our acquaintanceship has been of
such brief duration, yet I feel that your friendship is sincere, Mrs
Edmondson."
By this speech the widow was intensely flattered. Her companion saw it
in her countenance.
He did not allow her time to make any remark, but added: "My secret is--
well a rather curious one, perhaps--but the fact is that I have a dual
personality. While being Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, I am also
known as Dick Drummond, holder of two records on the Brooklands
motor-track. In the motor-world I'm believed to be a young man of
means, who devotes his time to motor-racing--a motor-maniac in fact."
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-a-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.