Priscilla gazed at him in astonishment.  He was taking no notice of her, and was looking fearfully up and down the row of faces that were watching the turbine’s arrival.

“Fritzi, if you are worried it must be because you’ve not slept,” said Priscilla, laying her hand with a stroking little movement on his sleeve; for what but overwrought nerves could make him look so odd?  It was after all Fritzing who had behaved with the braveness of a lion the night before in that matter of the policeman; and it was he who had asked in stern tones of rebuke, when her courage seemed aflicker, whether she repented.  “You do not repent?” she asked, imitating that sternness.

“Ma’am—­” he began in a low and dreadful voice, his eyes ceaselessly ranging up and down the figures on the quay.

“Sh—­sh—­Niece,” interrupted Priscilla, smiling.

He turned and looked at her as a man may look for the last time at the thing in life that has been most dear to him, and said nothing.

IV

But nobody was waiting for them at Dover.  Fritzing’s agonies might all have been spared.  They passed quite unnoticed through the crowd of idlers to the train, and putting Priscilla and her maid into it he rushed at the nearest newspaper-boy, pouncing on him, tearing a handful of his papers from him, and was devouring their contents before the astonished boy had well finished his request that he should hold hard.  The boy, who had been brought up in the simple faith that one should pay one’s pennies first and read next, said a few things under his breath about Germans—­crude short things not worth repeating—­and jerking his thumb towards the intent Fritzing, winked at a detective who was standing near.  The detective did not need the wink.  His bland, abstracted eyes were already on Fritzing, and he was making rapid mental notes of the goggles, the muffler, the cap pulled down over the ears.  Truly it is a great art, that of running away, and needs incessant practice.

And after all there was not a word about the Princess in the papers.  They were full, as the Englishmen on the turbine had been full, of something the Russians, who at that time were always doing something, had just done—­something that had struck England from end to end into a blaze of indignation and that has nothing to do with my story.  Fritzing dropped the papers on the platform, and had so little public spirit that he groaned aloud with relief.

“Shilling and a penny ’alfpenny, please, sir,” said the newspaper-boy glibly. “Westminster Gazette, sir, Daily Mail, Sporting and Dramatic, one Lady, and two Standards.”  From which it will be seen that Fritzing had seized his handful very much at random.

He paid the boy without heeding his earnest suggestions that he should try Tit-Bits, the Saturday Review, and Mother, to complete, said the boy, in substance if not in words, his bird’s-eye view over the field of representative English journalism, and went back to the Princess with a lighter heart than he had had for months.  The detective, apparently one of Nature’s gentlemen, picked up the scattered papers, and following Fritzing offered them him in the politest way imaginable just as Priscilla was saying she wanted to see what tea-baskets were like.