A RUN-AWAY QUEEN
A morbid regard for the exact speed limit was never one of Tony's
failings, and he covered the short distance that separated them from
the end of the park in what was probably a record time for that
respectable stretch of fairway.
He slackened down a little on reaching the gates, but as luck would
have it there was no one about to obstruct his progress, and in a
graceful curve he swept out on to the main road.
Then with a laugh he turned to Isabel.
"I love going about with you, Isabel," he said. "One never knows
what's going to happen next."
She made no answer, but rising slightly in her seat cast a quick,
frightened glance over her shoulder as if to see whether they were
being followed.
"It's quite all right," went on Tony comfortingly. "I don't know who
your friend is, but we shan't be seeing him again to-day."
"That," said Isabel faintly--"that was my uncle."
"Really!" said Tony. "He seems very impulsive."
He paused for a moment while the Hispano neatly negotiated a rather
dazzled-looking cluster of pedestrians, and then turning again to his
companion he added consolingly: "Don't let it worry you, Isabel.
Lots of charming people have eccentric uncles."
She made a little protesting gesture with her hands. "Oh, no, no,"
she said almost piteously, "I can't go on like this. I must tell you
the whole truth. I ought to have done so right at the beginning."
"Just as you like," replied Tony, "but hadn't we better wait till we
have had some food. It's so much easier to tell the truth after a
good meal."
She nodded rather forlornly, and without wasting any further
discussion on the matter, Tony turned away to the right and headed
off in the direction of Cookham. He continued to talk away to Isabel
in his easy, unruffled fashion exactly as if nothing unusual had
occurred, and by the end of the first mile or so she had pulled
herself together sufficiently to answer him back with quite a
passable imitation of her former good spirits. All the same it was
easy to see that underneath this apparent cheerfulness she was in
almost as nervous a state as when he had first met her in Long Acre.
They reached Cookham, and slowing down as the car entered its
pleasant, straggling main street, Tony turned into the courtyard of
the Dragon. A large, sombre-looking dog attached to a chain greeted
his appearance with vociferous approval; a welcome which, in spirit
at all events, was handsomely seconded by the smiling proprietress,
who a moment later made her appearance through the side door. Tony
was distinctly popular at riverside hotels.
"How do you do, Miss Brown?" he said.
"Very well, thank you, Sir Antony," she replied. "And you, sir? Lie
down."
The latter observation was addressed to the dog.
"I am suffering from hunger," observed Tony. "Do you think you can
make any nice suggestion about lunch?"
The landlady paused reflectively.
"I can give you," she said, "some trout, a roast duckling, and marrow
on toast."
Tony looked at her for a moment in speechless admiration. "My dear
Miss Brown," he said, "that isn't a suggestion. That's an outburst
of poetry." He turned to Isabel apologetically. "Roast duckling,"
he explained, "is one of the few things that make me really excited."
She laughed--a little gay, frank, natural laugh that Tony was
delighted to hear. "I think all men are greedy," she said. "At
least all the men I've ever known have been."
Tony nodded. "It's one of the original instincts of humanity," he
observed thoughtfully. "We have to be greedy in self-defence. A man
who isn't is bound to be beaten by a man who is. It's what Darwin
calls the survival of the fattest." He turned back to the landlady
who had been listening to him with a placid smile. "Send us a couple
of cocktails into the dining-room, will you, Miss Brown," he said.
"It would be wicked to rush at a lunch like that without any
preparation."
All through the meal, which was served in a pleasant room looking out
into a quaint old courtyard garden at the back, Tony kept the
conversation in the same strain of impersonal philosophy. It was not
until the marrow on toast had gone the way of all beautiful earthly
things that he made any reference to Isabel's promised revelation.
"What do you say to having coffee outside?" he suggested. "There's a
nice place where we can sit in the sun and you can tell me about your
uncle. One should never discuss one's relations in a public
dining-room."
Isabel contented herself with a nod, and after giving their
instructions to the waiter, they strolled out through the open French
window, and made their way to a rustic bench at the farther end of
the garden.
It was a delightfully warm, peaceful spring day, and the perfume of
the hyacinths and daffodils that were in full bloom almost
overpowered the slight odour of petrol from the neighbouring garage.
"It's a curious coincidence," observed Tony, as the waiter retired
after placing their coffee on a small table beside them, "but as a
matter of fact I feel in exactly the right frame of mind for
listening to the truth. I expect it's that bottle of burgundy we
had."
He struck a match and held it out to Isabel, who, bending forward,
lighted the cigarette which she had been twisting about between her
fingers.
"It's--it's dreadfully difficult to tell things," she said, sitting
up and looking at him rather helplessly. "I haven't the least notion
how to begin."
"Of course it's difficult," said Tony. "Nothing requires so much
practice as telling the truth. It's against every civilized impulse
in human nature." He paused. "Suppose we try the catechism idea for
a start. I ask you 'what is your name?' and you say 'Isabel
Francis.'"
She shook her head. "But--but it isn't," she faltered. "It's--it's
Isabella, and there are about eight other names after it."
Tony looked at her in surprise. "Why that's exactly the complaint I
am suffering from. I thought it was peculiar to baronets and
superfluous people of that sort."
"Well, the fact is," began Isabel; then she stopped. "Oh, I know it
sounds too utterly silly," she went on with a sort of hurried
desperation, "but you see the fact is I--I'm a queen."
She brought out the last three words as if she were confessing some
peculiarly shameful family secret.
Tony slowly removed his cigarette from his lips.
"A what?" he inquired.
"Well, not exactly a queen," said Isabel, correcting herself hastily.
"In a way I am, you know. I mean I ought to be. At least that's
what they say." She broke off in a charming confusion that made her
look prettier than ever.
Tony leaned back in the seat and contemplated her with deep enjoyment.
"You grow more perfect every minute, Cousin Isabel," he said. "Don't
hurry yourself, but just tell me quite slowly and deliberately who
you really are."
Isabel took a long breath. "My father was Don Francisco of Livadia,
and some people say I ought to be the queen."
Tony was not easily surprised, but for once in his life he sat up as
if he had been struck by an electric shock. Even his trusty powers
of speech were temporarily numbed.
He had of course heard of Don Francisco--that persistent gentleman
who for twenty years had indulged in spasmodic and ineffectual
efforts to wrest the throne of Livadia from Pedro's father. But that
Isabel should be his daughter, and what was more the apparently
recognized heir to his royal claims, was one of those staggering
surprises for which the English language contains no adequate comment.
For a moment he remained gazing at her in the blankest astonishment;
then the full humour of the situation suddenly came home to him, and
he broke into a long chuckle of delighted amusement.
Isabel watched him sympathetically out of her amber eyes.
"It's quite true," she said. "I know it sounds absurd, but it's
quite true."
"I don't think it's the least absurd," said Tony, who had now
completely recovered his normal composure. "I think it's the most
beautifully reasonable thing that's ever happened. Of course you are
a queen, or ought to be a queen. I felt that the moment I met you."
He paused, and taking out his case lighted himself a fresh cigarette.
"It was the Livadian part of the business that knocked me out so
completely," he explained.
Isabel nodded her head. "I know," she said. "I heard you say that
you knew Pedro and Da Freitas. That was one of the things that made
me feel I ought to tell you."
"It only shows," remarked Tony with quiet satisfaction, "that the
Early Christian Fathers were quite right. If one has faith and
patience one generally gets what one wants sooner or later. All my
life I have had a secret craving to be mixed up in some really
high-class conspiracy; with kings and queens and bombs and wonderful
mysterious people crawling about trying to assassinate each other. I
was just beginning to be afraid that all that kind of thing was
extinct." He drew in a long mouthful of smoke, and let it filter out
luxuriously into the still, warm air. "How very fortunate I happened
to be in Long Acre, wasn't it?"
"I am so glad you feel like that," said Isabel happily. "I was
afraid you wouldn't want to help me any more when you knew all about
it."
"But I don't know all about it yet," objected Tony. "Hadn't you
better begin right at the beginning and tell me everything?"
For a moment Isabel hesitated.
"Well," she said slowly. "I suppose that what you would call the
beginning--the real beginning--was a long time before I was born.
You see my grandfather always had an idea that he ought to be king of
Livadia, because he said there was something wrong about somebody's
marriage or something back in sixteen hundred and fifty--at least I
think that was the date."
"It was a very careless century," said Tony.
"He didn't bother much about it himself," went on Isabel, "because he
hated Livadia and liked to live in Paris or London. Besides I think
they made him an allowance to keep out of the country. Father was
quite different. He always wanted to be a king, and directly my
grandfather died, he started doing everything he could to get what he
called 'his rights.'"
"I can never understand any intelligent man wanting to be a king,"
observed Tony thoughtfully. "One would have to associate entirely
with successful people, and they are always so horribly busy and
conceited."
"But father wasn't intelligent," explained Isabel, "not in the least
little bit. He was just obstinate. He was quite certain he ought to
be a king, and you know when you are quite certain about a thing
yourself, however silly it is, there are always lots of others who
will agree with you." She paused. "Besides," she went on, "after
the old King died and Pedro's father came to the throne, things were
quite different in Livadia. The taxes went on going up and up, and
the country kept on getting poorer and poorer, until at last a
certain number of people began to wonder whether it wouldn't be
better to have a change. I don't think they thought much of father.
I suppose they just felt he couldn't be worse anyhow."
"I like your historical sense, Isabel," observed Tony. "It's so free
from prejudice."
Isabel accepted the compliment with perfect simplicity. "You see I
knew father," she said frankly. "He would have made a very bad king;
he was always getting intoxicated."
Tony nodded. "Nearly all exiled monarchs are addicted to drink.
They find it necessary to keep up their enthusiasm."
"But it wasn't only a question of drinking in father's case," went on
Isabel. "People wouldn't have minded that very much; you see they
are so used to it in Livadia. It was the way he quarrelled with
everyone afterwards that spoilt his chances. At one time he had
almost as big a following as the King, but after a bit most of them
gave him up as hopeless. Then someone started the idea of a
Republic. It was quite a small party at first, but people drifted
into it gradually from both sides until in the end it was the
strongest of the three. Father wouldn't give up for a long time. He
was a frightfully obstinate man, and I don't think he knew what it
meant to be afraid. That was one of his best points. He kept on
until nearly everyone who stuck to him had been killed, and then at
last he got badly wounded himself, and only just managed to escape
over the frontier."
"And what were you doing all this crowded time?" inquired Tony.
"I," said Isabel, "oh, I was living in Paris with my governess, Miss
Watson."
"What--the missing lady of Long Acre?"
Isabel nodded. "She looked after me for fifteen years. You see,
father had spent a good deal of time in London when he was young, and
he always said that English women were the only ones you could trust
because they were so cold. So when my mother died, he engaged Miss
Watson and put me in her charge altogether."
"Judging by the results," observed Tony, "it seems to have been a
happy choice."
"She's a dear," said Isabel with enthusiasm, "an absolute dear. I
don't know what I should have been like without her, because father
always insisted on his own people treating me as if I was a real
princess, and we never saw any one else. If it hadn't been for her,
I should probably have believed everything they told me." She paused
for a moment as though reflecting on this narrow but fortunate
escape, and then straightening herself in the seat, she added: "I was
really quite happy until Uncle Philip sent her away."
"Is Uncle Philip our impetuous friend of Richmond Park?" inquired
Tony.
"That's him," said Isabel, with a queenly disregard for grammar. "He
is my mother's brother, and his real name is the Count de Sé. He
came to live with us in Paris after father was wounded. He is a
nasty, mean, hateful sort of man, but father liked him because he was
the only person left who treated him like a king. Poor father was
nearly always drunk in those days, and I don't think he really knew
what he was doing. Uncle Philip used to talk to him and flatter him
and all that sort of thing, and at last he got father to make a will
appointing him as my guardian. The very first thing he did, as soon
as father died, was to send away Miss Watson."
"I don't think I like Uncle Philip," said Tony. "I am glad I pushed
him off the car."
"So am I," said Isabel with surprising viciousness. "I only hope he
hurt himself. He did fall in the road, didn't he?" she added
anxiously.
"I think so," said Tony. "It sounded like it anyway."
"I can't help feeling horrid about him," she went on. "It is all his
fault that any of this has happened."
"I am glad to hear something in his favour," said Tony.
"Oh, I don't mean my being here and knowing you. I love that part of
it. I mean Richmond and Pedro and Da Freitas, and--and--oh, all the
hateful, ghastly time I have had the last month."
She broke off with a slight shiver, as though the very memory were
physically unpleasant. Tony smoked his cigarette in sympathetic
silence until she felt ready to continue.
"You see," she began, "after Miss Watson was sent away there was no
one to help me at all. Uncle Philip wouldn't let me have any money,
and the only person I could talk to was a horrible old Frenchwoman
who spied on me all the time like a cat. I had a year of that, and
then one day Uncle Philip told me that he had taken a house for us at
Richmond in England, and that we were going over to live there at
once. I didn't mind. Anything seemed better than Paris, and of
course I had no idea what his real plans were."
There was a short pause.
"It didn't take me long to find out," she went on bitterly. "The day
after we arrived, I was sitting in the drawing-room when who should
come in but Uncle Philip and the Marquis da Freitas. You can imagine
how astonished I was when Uncle introduced him. Of course I had
always been brought up to look on him as the worst enemy we had.
Well, he bowed and he smiled and he paid me a lot of compliments, and
then he said that now Livadia was a republic it was only right that
the two branches of the royal family should be friends. He kept on
telling me how anxious King Pedro was to make my acquaintance, and at
last it came out that he and the King were living in Richmond and
that we were invited over to dinner the next night.
"Even then," she continued slowly, "I didn't guess what was behind it
all. It was only when he was gone and I was alone with Uncle that I
found out the truth."
She paused.
"Yes?" said Tony.
Isabel took another long breath.
"They had arranged for a marriage between me and Pedro, and it was to
come off in a couple of months."
A low surprised whistle broke from Tony's lips.
"By Jove!" he said softly. "By Jove!"
For a moment he remained contemplating Isabel with a sort of grave
enjoyment; then abandoning his cigarette he sat up straight in the
seat.
"This," he observed, "is undoubtedly a case of predestination. It
must have been arranged millions of years ago that I should be in
Long Acre on that particular evening."
"Perhaps it was," said Isabel. "Anyway I shouldn't have married
Pedro whatever happened. I made up my mind about that the first time
I saw him."
"Did you tell him?" asked Tony.
"I told Uncle Philip as soon as we got home. Of course he was very
angry, but I don't think he took me seriously. He just said it
didn't make any difference--that whether I liked it or not I should
have to be married, so I had better get used to the idea as quickly
as possible."
Tony nodded his head thoughtfully.
"It all fits in perfectly except one thing," he said. "I can't quite
see what your uncle and Da Freitas hope to get out of it. They must
both have some notion at the back of their beautiful heads."
"That's what I don't understand," said Isabel in a puzzled voice.
"Anyhow it's all their arrangement. Pedro doesn't want to marry me
really--not a little bit. He is only doing it because Da Freitas
tells him to." She hesitated. "If it hadn't been for that I
couldn't have stood it as long as I did."
"How long was it?" asked Tony sympathetically.
"Just three weeks. The day after that first dinner Da Freitas came
over again, and made a sort of formal proposal. I told him quite
plainly I wouldn't, but it didn't make any difference. Uncle Philip
declared that I was shy, and didn't know what I was talking about,
and Da Freitas said in his horrid oily way that he was quite sure
when I got to know Pedro better I would love him as much as he loved
me. I saw it was no good saying anything else, so I just made up my
mind I would run away."
Tony looked at her approvingly. "You are extraordinarily practical,"
he said, "for the daughter of an exiled monarch."
"There was nothing else to do," replied Isabel; "but it wasn't easy.
You see I had no money and Uncle never let me go out alone. Wherever
I went I always had Suzanne the old Frenchwoman with me. The only
person I could think of who might be able to help me was Miss Watson.
When she left she had given me her address in London, and I knew she
would do anything she could because she hated Uncle Philip almost as
much as I did. I wrote her a little note and carried it about with
me in my dress for days, but I never got a chance to post it. Well,
things went on like that till last Monday. I was feeling hateful,
because Pedro had been to dinner the night before, and I think he'd
had too much to drink. Anyhow he had wanted to kiss me afterwards,
and there had been a frightful row, and everyone had been perfectly
horrid to me. In the morning Uncle started again. He told me that
he and the Marquis da Freitas had decided to put a stop to what he
called my 'nonsense,' and that they were making arrangements for me
and Pedro to be married immediately. I felt miserable, but I wasn't
going to argue any more about it, so I just said nothing. He went
over there about half-past six in the evening and I was left alone in
the house with Suzanne. They wouldn't trust me to be by myself at
all, except at night, when I was always locked in my bedroom."
She stopped to push back a rebellious copper-coloured curl which had
temporarily escaped over her forehead.
"We were sitting in the drawing-room," she went on, "and Suzanne was
knitting, and I was supposed to be reading a book. I wasn't really,
because I was too miserable to think about anything. I was just
sitting doing nothing when I happened to look up, and there I saw
half-a-crown on the writing-desk opposite. I suppose it must have
been Suzanne's. Well, I looked at it for a moment, and then all of a
sudden I made up my mind. I got up out of the chair, and walked
across the room as if I was going to get something fresh to read. As
I passed the desk I picked up the half-crown. I had a horrible
feeling in my back that Suzanne was watching me, but I didn't look
round till I got to the book-case, and then I saw that she was still
knitting away quite peacefully and happily. I didn't wait any
longer. I just walked straight on to the door, and before she knew
what was happening, I had slipped out on to the landing and locked
her in."
"Splendid!" said Tony with enthusiasm. "I can almost hear her
gnashing her teeth."
"She was rather angry," admitted Isabel, "but I didn't pay any
attention to her. I knew that no one could hear, so I left her to
shout and kick the door and ran straight up to my room. I was too
excited to bother much about what I took with me. I just stuffed a
few things in my bag, and then I crept downstairs again, and got out
of the house as quick as ever I could."
"Did you feel afraid?" asked Tony.
"Not till I got to the station. Then I found I had ten minutes to
wait for a train and that was awful. I kept on thinking Uncle Philip
would turn up every moment. I stopped in the ladies' waiting-room as
long as I could, and then I made a dash for the platform and jumped
into the first carriage I came to. It was full of old women, and
they all stared at me as if I was mad. I felt horribly red and
uncomfortable, but I wasn't going to get out again, so I just
squeezed into a seat and shut my eyes and let them stare."
"You mustn't blame them," said Tony. "It's the special privilege of
cats to scrutinize Royalty."
"Oh, I didn't mind really. I am sort of accustomed to it. People
used to stare at me in France when I went in a train. I expect it's
my red hair." She paused. "All the same I was glad when we got to
Waterloo. I was so excited I could hardly breathe till I was past
the barrier, and then I nearly collapsed. I know now just how an
animal feels when he gets out of a trap." She turned to Tony. "You
don't think I'm an awful coward, do you?"
"I think you are as brave as a lion," said Tony.
"I didn't feel it then," she answered. "I was trembling all over and
my heart was thumping like anything. I sat down on a seat for a
minute, and then I thought I would go into the refreshment room and
have a cup of tea. You see I had come away without any dinner."
"You poor dear!" said Tony feelingly. "Of course you had!"
"Well, I got up from the seat, and I was just looking round to see
where the refreshment room was, when I suddenly caught sight of two
men staring at me like anything."
"What--not our two comic opera pals?" exclaimed Tony.
Isabel nodded emphatically. "Yes," she said, "that's who it was.
They were standing over by the bookstall talking together. They
turned away directly I looked at them, but I knew perfectly well they
were watching me. I had never seen either of them before and it made
me feel horribly frightened again. I thought that perhaps Uncle had
telephoned up to London, and that they were two policemen who had
come to fetch me back."
"You can always tell an English policeman when he is in plain
clothes," interrupted Tony. "He looks so fearfully ashamed of
himself."
"I didn't know," said Isabel. "I was too upset to think much, and
when they came after me into the refreshment room I could simply have
screamed. I thought they were going to speak to me then, but they
didn't. They just sat there while I had my tea, and then followed me
out on to the platform. I asked a porter what was the best way to
get to Long Acre, and he told me to take the tube to Leicester
Square. I hoped and hoped I'd manage to lose them, but it was no
good. They came along in the same carriage and got out at Leicester
Square, too."
"I wish I'd been with you," said Tony regretfully. "I have never
been traced or shadowed or anything like that. It must be a
wonderful feeling."
"It was awful in the lift," said Isabel. "I hadn't the least notion
which way to go when I got out, and I felt certain they would come up
and speak to me. I was so desperate that just as the lift stopped I
turned round to the lady who was standing next me and asked her if
she could show me the way to Long Acre. You can imagine how pleased
I was when she said she was going in that direction and I could walk
along with her."
"I suppose they crept stealthily after you," said Tony. "People
always do that in books when they are shadowing anybody."
"I suppose they did," said Isabel. "I was much too frightened to
look round. I just walked along with the lady till we got to the
door of the flats, and then I thanked her very much and ran upstairs
as fast as I could. Miss Watson's number was right at the top of the
building. There was no bell, so I hammered on the knocker, and then
I stood there panting and trying to get my breath, and thinking every
moment I should hear them coming up the stairs after me.
"Well, I stood there and stood there, and nothing happened, and then
suddenly it came to me as if--oh, just as if somebody had dropped a
lump of ice down inside my dress. Suppose Miss Watson had left! You
see I had been so excited about getting away from Richmond I had
never thought of that. For a second it made me feel quite ill; then
I grabbed hold of the knocker, and I was just beginning to hammer
again, when the door of the opposite flat opened and an old gentleman
came out on to the landing. He was a fat, cross-looking old man,
with spectacles and carpet slippers, and a newspaper in his hand. He
said to me: 'It's no good making that horrible noise. Miss Watson
has gone away for a month, and there's no one in the place.' Then he
banged the door and went back into the flat."
"Dyspeptic old brute," observed Tony. "I hope you went on hammering."
"What was the good?" said Isabel with a little despairing gesture.
"I knew he was speaking the truth because I had already made enough
noise to wake up twenty people. Besides I seemed to have gone all
sort of numbed and stupid. I had so counted on finding Miss Watson I
had never even begun to think what would happen if she wasn't there."
"It must have been a shattering blow," said Tony. "I think I should
have burst into tears."
"I couldn't cry; I was too dazed and miserable. I just leaned where
I was against the wall and wondered what on earth I was to do next.
The only thing I could think of was to go to a hotel. I had no
money, except what was left out of the half-crown, but I had got my
rings and I knew I could sell them the next day. It was the two men
outside that I was so frightened of. I felt certain they were
policemen, and that if I went anywhere they would be sure to follow
me and then telegraph to Uncle Philip where I was.
"I don't know how long I stayed on the landing. It seemed an age,
but I expect it was only about half an hour really. I thought that
perhaps if I stopped there long enough they might get tired of
waiting and go away.
"At last I began to feel so cold and hungry and tired I simply
couldn't stand it any longer. I came downstairs again as far as the
hall, and then I walked across to the door and looked out into the
street. I couldn't see a sign of anybody waiting about, so I just
sort of set my teeth and stepped out on to the pavement. I stood
there for a second wondering which way to go, and then almost before
I knew what was happening there I was with my back against the wall,
and those two horrible men in front of me."
She paused with a little reminiscent gasp.
"And the rest of the acts of Isabel and all that she did," began
Tony; then he broke off with a laugh. "What was it our squint-eyed
friend was actually saying to you?" he asked.
"It wasn't so much what he said," answered Isabel; "it was what he
said it in. He spoke to me in Livadian."
Tony nodded composedly. "I thought so," he observed.
"He said: 'Don't be frightened, Madam; we are your friends.' At
least I think it was that. I was too upset to listen to him
properly; and the next moment you came." She drew in a long breath.
"Oh, I was pleased," she added simply.
"So was I," said Tony, "and so was Bugg. In fact I think we were all
pleased except your friends." He paused. "Are you quite sure you
hadn't seen either of them before?"
Isabel nodded. "Quite," she said. "I never forget faces; especially
faces like that."
"They _are_ the sort that would linger in one's memory," said Tony.
He got up from the seat and stood for a moment with his hands in his
side-pockets looking thoughtfully down at Isabel.
"Now you know everything," she began hesitatingly. "Are you--are you
still certain you wouldn't like me to go away?"
"Go away!" repeated Tony. "My incomparable cousin, what are you
talking about?"
"But just think," she pleaded. "It may mean all sorts of trouble. I
don't know who those two men are or what they want, but I've got a
sort of horrible feeling they will find me out again somehow. And
then there's my uncle and Da Freitas." She gave a little shiver.
"Oh, you don't know Da Freitas as I do. There's nothing he will stop
at to get me back--absolutely nothing."
Tony smiled happily. "I quite believe you," he said. "I should
think he was a most unscrupulous brute. People with those smooth
purry voices always are." Then with that sudden infectious laugh he
took his hands from his pockets and held them out to Isabel, who
after a momentary hesitation put out her own to meet them. "My dear
Isabel," he said, almost seriously; "haven't you grasped the great
fact that this is the most colossal jest ever arranged by Providence?
I should see it through to the end if I had to get up to breakfast
every day for the rest of my life." He paused with a twinkle in his
eyes. "Unless, of course, you really want to be Queen of Livadia."
"Me!" exclaimed Isabel, with the same fine disregard for grammar.
"Why, I never want to see the hateful place again. There's nothing I
would love better than just to stay with you--I mean of course," she
added hastily, "until Miss Watson comes back."
"Of course," said Tony.
Then suddenly releasing her hands, Isabel too got up from the seat.
"It's only that I don't want to be a trouble or--or an expense," she
added a little confusedly.
"As far as the expense goes," said Tony, "the matter is already
settled. I have consulted one of the most eminent pawnbrokers in
London, and he tells me that your great-grandmother had a very pretty
taste in jewellery. There will be no need to pawn the rings. He let
me have seven thousand pounds on the brooch alone."
"Seven thousand pounds," echoed Isabel with a gasp. "Oh, but how
lovely! I can live on that for ever." She hesitated for a moment.
"They are part of the Royal collection you know. Pedro gave them to
me when we were betrothed--at least I don't suppose he really meant
me to keep them."
Tony laughed joyously. "What fun!" he exclaimed. "I should love to
have seen Da Freitas' face when he heard you had taken them with you.
Though as a matter of fact," he added, "we shall probably see it
quite soon enough, unless Uncle Phil was too agitated to recognize
me."
"Recognize you?" repeated Isabel, opening her eyes. "Why he has
never seen you before this morning!"
"Yes, he has," said Tony. "I happened to be in the hall of the Club
yesterday, when he came rushing in to tell Da Freitas that you had
disappeared. At least I imagine that was what he came for. He could
hardly have been so beautifully excited about anything else."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Isabel in dismay. "Then if he saw you in the
car he will be able to find out who you are from Da Freitas."
Tony nodded. "One can't have all the trumps," he observed
philosophically. "It would be an awfully dull game if one did."
There was a second's pause. Then with a sudden impulsive gesture
Isabel clasped her hands together in front of her.
"I don't care," she remarked defiantly. "I'm not frightened of them.
I don't believe I shall be frightened of anything--not with you to
help me."