As he grasped her hand and greeted her with formality, he felt it tremble within his grasp. She had kept his secret; of that there was no doubt.

The home life of the Northovers he found quite pleasant. It was so unlike anything he had even been used to. He remained to tea, and he returned there to dine and spend a pleasant evening listening to Nellie’s performances on the piano.

Afterwards, when the ladies had retired as they did discreetly at half-past ten, he sat smoking his “Petroffs” and chatting with Mr Northover.

“I hope you found your friend, the clergyman, better, Prince. Where is he living?”

“Oh, yes; he’s much better, thanks. But he has rather wretched quarters, in a house in Rock Terrace. I’ve urged him to move into an hotel. He says, however, that he hates hotels. He’s such a good fellow – gives nearly all he has to the poor.”

“I suppose he’s down here for fresh air?”

“Yes. He’s very fond of this neighbourhood. Often came here when a boy, I believe.”

“When you go again I’d like to call upon him. We must not allow him to be lonely.”

“I shall call to-morrow. Perhaps you could go with me, after the bank has closed?”

“Yes. At four-thirty. Will you call at the bank for me?”

And so it was arranged.

Punctually at the hour named the Prince stepped from his car before the bank – which was situated in a side street between two shops – and was at once admitted and ushered through to the manager’s room.

Then the pair went on to Rock Terrace to pay the visit. The invalid was much better, and Northover found him a man entirely after his own heart. He was a man of the world, as well as a clergyman.

In the week that followed, Nellie’s father made several visits, and once, on a particularly bright day, the Prince brought the Rev. Thomas round in the car to return the visit at Tinwell Road.

Within ten days the vicar of St. Ethelburga’s, Bayswater, had become quite an intimate friend of the Northovers; so much so, indeed, that they compelled him to give up his rooms in Rock Terrace, and come and stay as their guest. Perhaps it was more for the Prince’s sake they did this – perhaps because they admired Clayton as “a splendid fellow for a parson.”

Anyhow, all this gave the Prince plenty of opportunities for meeting Nellie clandestinely. Instead of going to her music-lesson, or to her hockey-club, or visiting an old schoolfellow, she went daily to a certain secluded spot on the Worthope Road, where she was joined by the man she loved.

Her romance was complete. She adored Albert, utterly and devotedly; while he, on his part, was her slave. On the third day after his arrival in Stamford she had promised to become Princess of Hesse-Holstein, and now they were closely preserving their secret.

The advent of his Highness had raised Mrs Northover to the very pinnacle of the social scale in Stamford. Times without number she tried to obtain from Nellie the true state of affairs, but the girl was sly enough to preserve her lover’s secret.

If the truth were yet known to the family of Hesse-Holstein, all sorts of complications would assuredly ensue. Besides, it would, he felt certain, bring upon him the displeasure of the Emperor. He must go to Potsdam, and announce to the Kaiser his engagement with his own lips.

And so little Nellie Northover, the chosen Princess of Hesse-Holstein, the girl destined to become husband of the ruler of a principality half the size of England, and the wealthiest of the German princes, often wandered the country roads alone, and tried to peer into her brilliant future. What would the girls of Stamford say when they found that Nellie Northover was actually a princess! Why, even the Marchioness who lived at the great ancestral mansion, mentioned in Tennyson’s well-known poem, would then receive her!

And all through the mere failing of a motor-car clutch at that tiny obscure Belgian village.

The Reverend Thomas gradually grew stronger while guest of Mr Northover, and both he and the Prince, together with the Northovers, Mr Henry Ashdown, the assistant manager of the bank who lived on the premises, and others of the Northovers’ friends went for frequent runs in the nobleman’s car.

The Prince never hedged himself in by etiquette. Every friend of Northover at once became his friend; hence, within a fortnight, his Highness was the most popular figure in that quaint old market town.

One afternoon while the Prince and the clergyman were walking together up the High Street, they passed a thin, pale-faced man in dark grey flannels.

Glances of recognition were exchanged, but no word was uttered.

“Max is at the ‘George,’ isn’t he?” asked the Prince.

“Yes,” replied his companion. “Arrived the night before last, and having a particularly dull time, I should think.”

“So should I,” laughed the Prince.

That evening, the two ladies being away at the Milton Hound Show, they took Northover and his assistant, Ashdown, after their business, over to Peterborough to bring them back. Ashdown was some ten years younger than his chief, and rather fond of his whisky and soda. At the Great Northern Hotel in Peterborough they found the ladies; and on their return to Stamford the whole party dined together at the Prince’s hotel, an old-fashioned hostelry with old-fashioned English fare.

And so another fortnight went past. The autumn winds grew more chilly, and the leaves fell with the advance of October.

Nellie constantly met the Prince, in secret, the only person knowing the truth besides themselves being the Parson, who had now become one of the girl’s particular friends.

While the Prince was dressing for dinner one evening, Charles being engaged in putting the links in his shirt-cuffs, he suddenly asked:

“Max is still in Stamford, I suppose?”

“I believe so, your Highness.”

“Well, I want you to take this up to London to-night, Charles.” And he drew from a locked drawer a small sealed packet about four inches square, looking like jewellery. “You’ll see the address on it. Take it there, then go to the Suffolk Hotel, in Suffolk Street, Strand, and wait till I send you instructions to return.”

“Very well, your Highness,” answered the man who always carried out his master’s instructions with blind obedience.

Next day, in conversation with Mr Northover, the Prince expressed regret that he had been compelled to discharge his man Charles at a moment’s notice.

“The man is a thief,” he said briefly. “I lost a valuable scarf-pin the other day – one given me by the Emperor. But I never suspected him until a few days ago when I received an anonymous letter telling me that my trusted man, Charles, had, before I took him into my service, been convicted of theft, and was, indeed, one of a gang of clever swindlers! I made inquiries, and discovered this to be the actual truth.”

“By Jove!” remarked the Reverend Thomas. “Think what an escape the Prince has had! All his jewellery might have suddenly disappeared!”

“How very fortunate you were warned!” declared Mr Northover. “Your correspondent was anonymous, you say?”

“Yes. Some one must have recognised him in London, I think, and, therefore, given me warning. A most disagreeable affair – I assure you.”

“Then you’ve lost the Emperor’s present?” asked Nellie.

“Yes,” sighed the Prince; “It’s gone for ever. I’ve given notice to the police. They’re sending a detective from London to see me, I believe, but I feel certain I shall never see it again.”

This conversation was repeated by Mrs Northover to her husband, when he returned from business that evening.

About the same hour, however, while the Prince was smoking with his clerical friend in his private room at the hotel, the waiter entered, saying that a Mr Mason had called upon his Highness.

“That’s the man from Scotland Yard!” exclaimed the Prince aloud. “Show him up.”

A few moments later a rather pale-faced, fair-haired man in shabby brown tweeds was ushered in, and the waiter, who knew the story of Charles’s sudden discharge, retired.

“Good evening, Prince,” exclaimed the new-comer. “I got your wire and came at once.” At the same time he produced from his pocket a small cartridge envelope containing something slightly bulky, but carefully sealed.

“Right! Go over there, Max, and help yourself to a drink. You’re at the ‘George,’ I suppose?”

“No. I’ve got a room here – so as to be near you – in case of necessity, you know,” he added meaningly.

The two men exchanged glances.

It was evident at once that Mr Mason was no stranger, for he helped himself to a cigarette uninvited, and, mixing a small drink, drained it off at a single gulp.

Then, after chatting for a quarter of an hour or so, he went out “just to get a wash,” as he put it.

The Prince, when he had gone, turned over the small packet in his hand without opening it.

Then he rose, walked to the window, and in silence looked out upon the old church opposite, deep in thought.

The Parson, watching him without a word, knit his brows, and pursed his lips.

Next morning the Prince sent Garrett with the car to London, as he wanted some alteration to the hood, and that afternoon, as he crossed the marketplace, he again met Max. Neither spoke. A glance of recognition was all that passed between them. Meanwhile, the detective from London had been making a good many inquiries in Stamford, concerning the associates and friends of the discharged valet Charles.

The latter was, the detective declared, an old hand, and his Highness had been very fortunate in getting rid of him when he did.

That evening Mr and Mrs Ashdown invited the Prince and the clergyman to dinner, at which they were joined by the sweet-faced Nellie and her father and mother. With true provincial habit, the party broke up at ten-thirty, and while the Parson walked home with the Northovers, his Highness lit a cigar and strolled back to the hotel alone.

Until nearly two o’clock he sat smoking, reading, and thinking – thinking always of pretty Nellie – and now and then glancing at the clock. After the church-bell had struck two he had a final “peg,” and then turned in.

Next morning, when the waiter brought his coffee, the man blurted forth breathlessly:

“There’s been a great robbery, your Highness, last night. The London and North Western Bank has been entered, and they say that four thousand pounds in gold has been stolen.”

“What!” gasped the Prince, springing up. “Mr Northover’s bank?”

“Yes, sir. The whole town is in an uproar! I’ve told Mr Mason, and he’s gone down to see. They say that a week ago a youngish man from London took the empty shop next door to the bank, and it’s believed the thieves were secreted in there. There doesn’t seem any evidence of any of the locks being tampered with, for the front door was opened with a key, and they had keys of both the doors of the strong-room. The police are utterly mystified, for Mr Northover has one key, and Mr Ashdown the other, and the doors can’t be opened unless they are both there together. Both gentlemen say their keys have never left them, and none of the burglar-alarms rang.”

“Then it’s an absolute mystery – eh,” remarked the Prince, utterly astonished. “Perhaps that scoundrel Charles has had something to do with it! He went to the bank for me on several occasions!”

“That’s what Mr Mason and the other police officers think, sir,” the waiter said. “And it seems that the men must have got out the coin, brought it into the empty shop, carried it through the back of the premises and packed it into a dark-green motor-car. A policeman out on the Worthorpe Road, saw the car pass just before two o’clock this morning. There were two men in it, besides the driver.”

The Prince dressed hastily, and was about to rush down to the bank to condole with Northover when the latter burst into his room in a great state of mind.

“It’s an absolute mystery, and so daring!” he declared. “The thieves must have had duplicate keys of the whole bank! They left all the notes, but cleared out every bit of gold coin. We had some unusually heavy deposits lately, and they’ve taken three thousand four hundred and thirty-two pounds!”

“What about that man who took the shop next door?”

“He’s perfectly respectable, the police assure me. He knows nothing about it. He’s hardly finished stocking the place with groceries, and opens the day after to-morrow. His name is Newman.”

“Then how did they get their booty away?”

“That’s the mystery. Unless through the back of the shop next door. No motor-car came along the street in the night, for Ashdown’s child was ill, and Mrs Ashdown was up all night and heard nothing. The means by which they got such a heavy lot of coin away so neatly is as mysterious as how they obtained the keys.”

“Depend upon it that my scoundrelly valet has had a finger in this!” the Prince declared. “I’ll assist you to try and find him. I happen to know some of his friends in London.”

Northover was delighted, and at the police-station the superintendent thanked his Highness for his kind promise of assistance. Mr Mason was ubiquitous, and the parson full of astonishment at the daring coup of the unknown thieves. Two bank directors came down from town in the afternoon, and after a discussion, a full report was telegraphed to New Scotland Yard.

That same evening the Prince went up to London, accompanied by the keen-eyed Mr Mason, leaving the Parson still the guest of Mr Northover.

The latter, however, would scarcely have continued to entertain him, had he known that, on arrival at King’s Cross, his Highness and Mr Mason took a cab to a certain house in Hereford Road, Bayswater, where Charles and Garrett were eagerly awaiting him. In the room were two other men whom the Prince shook by the hand and warmly congratulated.

Charles opened the door of the adjoining room, a poorly furnished bedroom, where stood a chest of drawers. One drawer after the other he opened.

They were full of bags of golden sovereigns!

“Those impressions you sent us, Prince, gave us a lot of trouble,” declared the elder of the two men, with a pronounced American accent. “The keys were very difficult to make, and when you sent us word that the parson had tried them and they wouldn’t act, we began to fear that it was no go. But we did the trick all right, after all, didn’t we? Guess we spent a pretty miserable week in Stamford, but you seemed to be having quite a good time. Where’s the Sky-pilot?”

“He’s remaining – convalescent, you know. And as for Bob Newman, he’ll be compelled to carry on that confounded grocery business next door for at least a couple of months – before he fails, and shuts up.”

“Well,” exclaimed the man Mason, whom everybody in Stamford – even the police themselves – believed to be a detective. “It was a close shave! You know, Prince, when you came out of the bank after dinner and I slipped in past you, I only just got into the shadow before that slip of a girl of Northover’s ran down the stairs after you. I saw you give her a kiss in the darkness.”

“She deserved a kiss, the little dear,” replied his Highness, “for without her we could never have brought off so complete a thing.”

“Ah! you always come in for the good things,” Charles remarked.

“Because I’m a prince,” was his Highness’s reply.

The police are still looking for the Prince’s valet, and his Highness has, of course, assisted them. Charles, however, got away to Copenhagen to a place of complete safety, and he being the only person suspected, it is very unlikely that the bank will ever see their money again – neither is Nellie Northover ever likely to see her prince.