“I’m wondering about you,” she explained quite gravely.

“One fancied as much, Princess Sofia.”

She liked his way of saying that; the title seemed to fall naturally from his lips, without a trace of irony.  None the less, it wouldn’t do to be too readily influenced in his favour.

“Do you really know my father?”

“Rather!” said Mr. Karslake.  “You see, I’m his secretary.”

“How long—­”

“Upward of eighteen months now.”

“And how long have you known I was his daughter?”

Mr. Karslake, consulting a wrist-watch, permitted himself a quiet smile.

“Thirty-eight minutes,” he announced—­“say, thirty-nine.”

“But how did you find out—?”

“Your father called me up—­can’t say from where—­said he’d just learned you were acting as cashier at the Cafe des Exiles, and would I be good enough to take you firmly by the hand and lead you home.”

“And how did he learn—?”

“That he didn’t say.  ’Fraid you’ll have to ask him, Princess Sofia.”

Genuinely diverted by the cross-examination, he awaited with unruffled good humour the next question to be put by this amazingly collected and direct young person.  But 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.”