“He did it jolly well,” said Anthony, with approval. “I never took him for anything but an Englishman.”
“The education of an English gentleman did the prince receive,” explained the Baron. “The custom of Herzoslovakia it is.”
“No professional could have pinched those papers better,” said Anthony. “May I ask, without indiscretion, what has become of them?”
“Between gentlemen,” began the Baron.
“You are too kind, Baron,” murmured Anthony. “I’ve never been called a gentleman so often as I have in the last forty-eight hours.”
“I to you say this—I believe them to be burnt.”
“You believe, but you don’t know, eh? Is that it?”
“His Highness in his own keeping retained them. His purpose it was to read them and then by the fire to destroy them.”
“I see,” said Anthony. “All the same, they are not the kind of light literature you’d skim through in half an hour.”
“Among the effects of my martyred master they have not discovered been. It is clear, therefore, that burnt they are.”
“H’m!” said Anthony. “I wonder?”
He was silent for a minute or two and then went on.
“I have asked you these questions, Baron, because, as you may have heard, I myself have been implicated in the crime. I must clear myself absolutely, so that no suspicion attaches to me.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the Baron. “Your honour demands it.”