Sofia hesitated. She didn't want to be rude, and Karslake
seemed to be telling a tolerably straight story; still, she couldn't
altogether believe in him as yet. She couldn't help it if his visit to the
restaurant had been a shade too opportune, his account of himself too
confoundedly pat.

No: she wasn't in the least afraid. Even if she were being kidnapped, she
wasn't afraid. She was so young, so absurdly confident in her ability to
take care of herself. On the other hand, intuition kept admonishing her
that in real life things simply didn't happen like this, so smoothly, so
fortunately; somehow, somewhere, in this curious affair, something must be
wrong.

"Please: what is my father's name?"

"Prince Victor Vassilyevski."

"You're sure it isn't Michael Lanyard?"

Now Mr. Karslake was genuinely startled and showed it. Sofia remarked that
he eyed her uneasily.

"My sainted aunt! Where did you get hold of that name?"

"Isn't it my father's?"

"Ye-es," the young man admitted, reluctantly; at least with something
strongly resembling reluctance. "But he doesn't use it any more."

"Why not?"

Mr. Karslake was silent, thoughtful. Sofia felt that she had scored and
with determination pressed her point.

"Do you mind telling me why he doesn't use that name, if it's his?"

"See here, Princess Sofia"--Karslake slewed round to face her squarely with
his most earnest and persuasive manner--"I am merely Prince Victor's
secretary, I'm not supposed to know all his secrets, and those I do know
I'm supposed not to talk about. I'd much rather you put that question to
Prince Victor yourself."

"I shall," Sofia announced with decision. "When am I to see him? To-night?"

"Of course. That is, I presume you will. I mean to say, Prince Victor
wasn't at home when I left, but if I know him he's sure to be when we
arrive. And I'm taking you there as directly as a motor can travel in this
blessed town."

Sofia looked out of the window. The car, having turned down Regent Street
from Piccadilly Circus, was now traversing sedate Pall Mall; and in another
moment it swung into the passage between St. James's Palace and Marlborough
House Chapel; and then they were in The Mall, with the Victoria Memorial
ahead, glowing against the dingy backing of Buckingham Palace.

Now, since all Sofia's reading had inculcated the belief that the
enterprising kidnapper always made off with his victim by way of dark
bystreets and unsavoury neighbourh