A rather wry smile came over Superintendent Battle’s face.
“I wondered if you’d think of that, sir. Prince Nicholas Obolovitch is the next heir—first cousin of this gentleman.”
“And where is he at the present moment?” asked Anthony, turning away to light a cigarette. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, Battle, because I shan’t believe you.”
“We’ve reason to believe that he’s in the United States. He was until quite lately, at all events. Raising money on his expectations.”
Anthony gave vent to a surprised whistle.
“I get you,” said Anthony. “Michael was backed by England, Nicholas by America. In both countries a group of financiers are anxious to obtain the oil concessions. The Loyalist party adopted Michael as their candidate—now they’ll have to look elsewhere. Gnashing of teeth on the part of Isaacstein and Co. and Mr. George Lomax. Rejoicings in Wall Street. Am I right?”
“You’re not far off,” said Superintendent Battle.
“H’m!” said Anthony. “I almost dare swear that I know what you were doing in that copse.”
The detective smiled, but made no reply.
“International politics are very fascinating,” said Anthony, “but I fear I must leave you. I have an appointment in the schoolroom.”
He strode briskly away towards the house. Inquiries of the dignified Tredwell showed him the way to the schoolroom. He tapped on the door and entered, to be greeted by squeals of joy.