Once more Penelope found herself in the library of the great house in Park Lane, where Mr. Blaine-Harvey presided over the interests of his country. This time she came as an uninvited, even an unexpected guest. The Ambassador, indeed, had been fetched away by her urgent message from the reception rooms, where his wife was entertaining a stream of callers. Penelope refused to sit down.
"I have not much to say to you, Mr. Harvey," she said. "There is just something which I have discovered and which you ought to know. I want to tell it you as quickly as possible and get away.""A propos of our last conversation?" he asked eagerly.
She bowed her head.
"It concerns Prince Maiyo," she admitted.
"You are sure that you will not sit down?" he persisted. "You know how interesting this is to me."She smiled faintly.
"To me," she said, "it is terrible. My only desire is to tell you and have finished with it. You remember, when I was here last, you told me that it was your firm belief that somewhere behind the hand which murdered Hamilton Fynes and poor Dicky stood the shadow of Prince Maiyo.""I remember it perfectly," he answered.
"You were right," Penelope said.
The Ambassador drew a little breath. It was staggering, this, even if expected.
"I have talked with the Prince several times since our conversation," Penelope continued. "So far as any information which he gave me or seemed likely to give me, I might as well have talked in a foreign language. But in his house, the day before yesterday, in his own library, hidden in a casket which opened only with a secret lock, I found two things.""What were they?" the Ambassador asked quickly.
"A roll of silken cord," Penelope said, "such as was used to strangle poor Dicky, and a strangely shaped dagger exactly like the picture of the one with which Hamilton Fynes was stabbed.""Did he know that you found them?" Mr. Blaine-Harvey asked.
"He was with me," Penelope answered. "He even, at my request, opened the casket. He must have forgotten that they were there.""Perhaps," the Ambassador said thoughtfully, "he never knew.""One cannot tell," Penelope answered.
"Did he say anything when you discovered them?" the Ambassador asked.
"Nothing," Penelope declared. "It was not necessary. I saw his face. He knows that I understand. It may have been some one else connected with the house, of course, but the main fact is beyond all doubt. Those murders were instigated, if they were not committed, by the Prince."The Ambassador walked to the window and back again.
"Penelope," he said, "you have only confirmed what I felt must be so, but even then the certainty of it is rather a shock."She gave him her hand.
"I have told you the truth," she said. "Make what use of it you will. There is one other thing, perhaps, which I ought to tell you. The Prince is going back to his own country very shortly."Mr. Harvey nodded.
"I have just been given to understand as much," he said. "At present he is to be met with every day. I believe that he is even now in my drawing rooms.""Where I ought to be," Penelope said, turning toward the door, "only I felt that I must see you first.""I will not come with you," Mr. Harvey said. "There is no need for our little conference to become the subject of comment. By the bye," he added, "let me take this opportunity of wishing you every happiness. I haven't seen Somerfield yet, but he is a lucky fellow. As an American, however, I cannot help grudging another of our most popular daughters to even the best of Englishmen."Penelope's smile was a little forced.
"Thank you very much," she said. "It is all rather in the air, at present, you know. We are not going to be married for some time.""When it comes off," the Ambassador said, "I am going to talk to the Duchess and Miss Morse. I think that I ought to give you away."Penelope made her way into Mrs. Blaine-Harvey's reception rooms, crowded with a stream of guests, who were sitting about, drinking tea and listening to the music, passing in and out all the time.
Curiously enough, almost the first person whom she saw was the Prince. He detached himself from a little group and came at once towards her. He took her hand in his and for a moment said nothing. Notwithstanding the hours of strenuous consideration, the hours which she had devoted to anticipating and preparing for this meeting, she felt her courage suddenly leaving her, a sinking at the knees, a wild desire to escape, at any cost. The color which had been so long denied her streamed into her cheeks.
There was something baffling, yet curiously disturbing, in the manner of his greeting.
"Is it true?" he asked.
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. It was amazing that he should ignore that other tragical incident, that he should think of nothing but this! Yet, in a way, she accepted it as a natural thing.
