r her whispered conversation with her husband, announced that
she, too, must go to town. Lady Grace insisted upon accompanying her,
and Penelope reminded them that she was already dressed for travelling
and that, in any case, she meant to be one of the party. Before ten
o'clock they were all on their way to London.

The Prince sat side by side with Lady Grace, the other two occupants of
the car being the Duke himself and Mr. Haviland. No one seemed in the
least inclined for conversation. The Duke and Mr. Haviland exchanged
a few remarks, but Lady Grace, leaning back in her seat, her features
completely obscured by a thick veil, declined to talk to any one. The
Prince seemed to be the only one who made any pretence at enjoying the
beauty of the spring morning, who seemed even to be aware of the warm
west wind, the occasional perfume of the hedgeside violets, and the
bluebells which stretched like a carpet in and out of the belts of wood.
Lady Grace's eyes, from beneath her veil, scarcely once left his face.
Perhaps, she thought, these things were merely allegorical to him.
Perhaps his eyes, fixed so steadfastly upon the distant horizon, were
not, as it seemed, following the graceful outline of that grove of dark
green pine trees, but were indeed searching back into the corners of
his life, measuring up the good and evil of it, asking the eternal
question--was it worth while?

In the other car, too, silence reigned. Somerfield was the only one who
struggled against the general air of depression.

"After all," he remarked to Bransome, "I don't see what we're all so
blue about. If Scotland Yard are right, and the Prince is really the
guilty person they imagine him, I cannot see what sympathy he deserves.
Of course, they look upon this sort of thing more lightly in his own
country, but, after all, he was no fool. He knew his risks."

Penelope spoke for the first time since they had left Devenham.

"If you begin to talk like that, Charlie," she said, "I shall ask the
Duchess to stop the car and put you down here in the road."

Somerfield laughed, not altogether pleasantly.

"Seven miles from any railway station," he remarked.

Penelope shrugged her shoulders.

"I should not care in the least what happened to you, today or at any
other time," she declared.

After that, Somerfield held his peace, and a somewhat strained silence
followed. Soon they reached the outskirts of London. Long before midday
they slackened spe