slipped on her long black coat with its leopardskin collar. Then, demurely, she declared herself ready to accompany the Prince.
They went out together, and Tommy was left behind, a prey to conflicting emotions.
Supposing something had gone wrong with the dictaphone? Supposing the mysterious Hospital Nurse had somehow or other learnt of its installation, and had rendered it useless?
He seized the telephone and called a certain number. There was a moment’s delay, and then a well known voice spoke.
“Quite OK. Come round to the Blitz at once.”
Five minutes later Tommy and Mr. Carter met in the Palm Court of the Blitz. The latter was crisp and reassuring.
“You’ve done excellently. The Prince and the little lady are at lunch in the Restaurant. I’ve got two of my men in there as waiters. Whether he suspects, or whether he doesn’t—and I’m fairly sure he doesn’t—we’ve got him on toast.
There are two men posted upstairs to watch his suite, and more outside ready to follow wherever they go. Don’t be worried about your wife. She’ll be kept in sight the whole time. I’m not going to run any risks.”
Occasionally one of the Secret Service men came to report progress. The first time it was a waiter who took their orders for cocktails, the second time it was a fashionable vacant-faced young man.
“They’re coming out,” said Mr. Carter. “We’ll retire behind this pillar in case they sit