"Not much to tell, sir. There seemed to be a storm of sorts brewing when I
got there. The young woman was at her desk with a face like a thundercloud.
While I was trying to make up my mind what would be my best approach, she
jumped down, flew upstairs and, I gathered, kicked up a holy row. You see,
she'd seen that advertisement of Secretan & Sypher's, and smelt a rat."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing definite, sir: seemed to understand she was the daughter of
Princess Sofia Vassilyevski, only she objected to her father being anybody
but Michael Lanyard."

"Go on."

"After a bit she stampeded downstairs again, with the old girl and that
swine of a Dupont at her heels. I blocked him and gave Sofia a chance to
get outside. The whole establishment boiled out into the street after us,
yelling like fun, but I got the girl into the car ... and here we are."

But Prince Victor seemed to have lost interest. The glow ebbing from his
face, his lips tightening, the thick lids drooping low over his eyes, he
sat in apparent abstraction, aping the impassivity of the graven idols that
graced his study.

"I don't mind owning, sir," the younger man resumed, nervously, "she had me
sparring for wind when she put it to me point-blank her father's name was
Michael Lanyard."

Without moving Victor enquired in a dull voice: "What did you tell her?"