The Lady in the Car

In a few moments the siren screamed, and the open exhaust roared and spluttered as they crossed the Stray, taking the road through Starbeck to Knaresborough, thence south by Little Ribston to Wetherby.

Having turned off to the left through the town, they came upon a straight open road where, for the first time his Highness, accustomed as he was to all the vagaries of his powerful car, put on a “move” over the ten miles into York, a run at such a pace that the widow clung to her seat with both hands, almost breathless.

She had never travelled half so fast before in all her life.

In York they ran round by the station past the old grey minster, then out again through Clifton, as far as Shipton Moor, turning up to Beningborough station, and thence into the by-roads to Newton-upon-Ouse, in the direction of Knaresborough.

Once or twice while they tore along regardless of speed-limits or of police-traps, the powerful engine throbbing before them, she turned to his Highness and tried to make some remarks. But it was only a sorry attempt. Travelling at fifty miles an hour over those white roads, without a glass screen, or even body to the car, was very exhilarating, and after the first few minutes of fright, at the tearing pace, she seemed to delight in it. Curious though it is, yet it is nevertheless a fact that women delight in a faster pace in a car than men, when once the first sensation of danger has passed.

When they were safely back again in the hall of the hotel she turned to him to express her great delight at the run.

“Your car is, indeed, a magnificent one, your Highness. I’ve never been on a racer before,” she said, “but it was truly delightful. I never had a moment’s anxiety, for you are such a sure and clever driver.”

Her eye had been from time to time upon the speedometer, and she had noted the terrific rate at which they had now and then travelled, especially upon any downward incline.

The Prince, on his part, was playing the exquisite courtier. Had she been a girl of twenty he could not have paid “old crow” more attention.

As he was dressing for dinner with the aid of the faithful Charles, the Parson entered, and to him he gave an accurate description of the run, and of the rather amorous attitude the obese widow had assumed towards him.

“Good, my dear boy,” exclaimed the urbane cleric, “I told you that she’s the most perfect specimen of the snob we’ve ever met.”

A week went by – a pleasant week, during which Mrs Edmondson, her nose now an inch higher in the air than formerly, went out daily with the Prince and his chauffeur for runs around the West Riding.

One afternoon they ran over to Ripon, and thence across to the fine old ruins of Fountains Abbey. Like many women of her class and character, the buxom lady delighted in monastic ruins, and as the pair strolled about in the great, roofless transept of the Abbey she commenced an enthusiastic admiration of its architecture and dimensions. Though living at Whitby she had, curiously enough, never before visited the place.

“Crowland, in Lincolnshire is very fine,” she remarked, “but this is far finer. Yet we have nothing in England to compare with Pavia, near Milan. Have you ever been there, Prince?”

“Only through the station,” his Highness replied. Truth to tell he was not enthusiastic over ruins. He was a very modern up-to-date young man.

They idled through the ruins, where the sunshine slanted through the gaunt broken windows, and the cawing rooks flapped lazily in and out. One or two other visitors were there besides themselves, and among them a lonely pale-faced man in grey, wearing gold pince-nez who, with hands behind his back, was studying the architecture and the various outbuildings.

The Prince and his companion brushed close by him in the old refectory, when he glanced up suddenly at a window.

His face was familiar enough to his Highness, who, however, passed him by as a stranger.

It was Max Mason, only yesterday returned from Copenhagen.

That afternoon the widow grew confidential with her princely cavalier in motor clothes, while he, on his part, encouraged her.

“Ah!” he sighed presently as they were walking slowly together in a distant part of the great ruined fabric. “You have no idea how very lonely a man can really be, even though he may be born a prince. More often than not I’m compelled to live incognito, for I have ever upon me the fierce glare of publicity. Every movement, every acquaintance I make, even my most private affairs are pried into and chronicled by those confounded press fellows. And for that reason I’m often compelled to hold aloof from people with whom I could otherwise be on terms of intimate friendship. Half my time and ingenuity is spent upon the adoption of subterfuges to prevent people from discovering who I really am. And then those infernal illustrated papers, both here and on the Continent, are eternally republishing my photograph.”

“It really must be most annoying, Prince,” remarked the widow sympathetically.

“I often adopt the name of Burchell-Laing,” he said, “and sometimes – well,” and he paused, looking her straight in the face. “I wonder, Mrs Edmondson, whether I might confide in you – I mean whether you would keep my secret?”

“I hope I may be permitted to call myself your Highness’s friend,” she said in a calm, impressive tone. “Whatever you may tell me will not, I assure you, pass my lips.”

“I am delighted to have such a friend as yourself,” he declared enthusiastically. “Somehow, though our acquaintanceship has been of such brief duration, yet I feel that your friendship is sincere, Mrs Edmondson.”

By this speech the widow was intensely flattered. Her companion saw it in her countenance.

He did not allow her time to make any remark, but added: “My secret is – well a rather curious one, perhaps – but the fact is that I have a dual personality. While being Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, I am also known as Dick Drummond, holder of two records on the Brooklands motor-track. In the motor-world I’m believed to be a young man of means, who devotes his time to motor-racing – a motor-maniac in fact.”

The widow stared at him in blank astonishment.

“Are you really the Mr Drummond of whose wonderful feat I read of only the other day in the papers?”

“I won the race at Brooklands the other day,” he said carelessly, “I won it with the car I have here now.”

“And nobody suspects that this Mr Drummond is a prince!” she exclaimed.

“Nobody. I could never afford to go racing in my own name. The Kaiser would not allow it, you know. I have to be so very careful.”

“I quite understand that,” remarked the widow. “But what an excellent motor-driver you must be! What a fine performance your record was! Why, there was half a column in the Morning Post about it!”

“It was not any more difficult, or more dangerous, than some of the long quick runs I’ve made on the Continent. From Rome up to Berlin, for instance, or from Warsaw to Ostend, I’m racing again at Brooklands next week.”

“And may I come and see you?” she asked. “Do let me. I will, of course, keep your secret, and not tell a soul.”

He hesitated.

“You see nobody knows but yourself and Garrett, my chauffeur – not even Clayton. He’s a good fellow, but parsons,” he laughed, “are bad hands at keeping secrets. Too much tea and gossip spoils them, I suppose.”

“But I’ll swear to remain secret. Only let me know the day and hour, and I’ll go south and see you. I should love to see a motor-race. I’ve never seen one in my life.”

So at last, with seeming reluctance, his Highness, having taken the flattered widow into his confidence, promised on condition that she said nothing to anybody, she should know the day and hour when to be at Brooklands.

As the warm summer days slipped by, it became more and more apparent to the Parson that his friend, the widow, had become entirely fascinated by the lighthearted easy-going prince. She, on her part, recognised how, because of her intimate acquaintance with his Highness, and the fact that he honoured her table with his presence sometimes at dinner, every one in the hotel courted her friendship in the hope that they might be introduced to the cousin of the Kaiser.

Prince and Parson were, truth to tell, playing a very big bluff. Max had taken up his quarters at the Spa Hydro, and though meeting his two accomplices frequently in the streets, passed them by as strangers.

Now and then the Parson went up to smoke with the Prince after the wealthy widow had retired, and on such occasions the conversation was of such a character that, if she had overheard it, she would have been considerably surprised.

One evening, when they were together, the valet, Charles, entered, closing the door carefully after him.

“Well,” asked his master, “what’s the news?”

“I’ve just left Max down in the town,” replied the clean-shaven servant. “He got back from Milnthorpe Hall this morning. He went there as an electrical engineer, sent by Cameron Brothers, of London, at the old woman’s request, and examined the whole place with a view to a lighting installation. He reports that, beyond a few good paintings – mostly family portraits of the original owners – and a little bric-à-brac, there’s nothing worth having. The old woman keeps her jewels in the bank at York, as well as greater part of the plate. What’s in general use is all electro. Besides, there are burglar-alarms all over the place.”

“Then the old woman’s a four-flush!” declared the Parson tossing away his cigarette angrily. “I thought she’d got some good stuff there. That was my impression from the outside.”

“Afraid of thieves, evidently,” remarked the Prince. “She’s a lone woman, and according to what you say, the only men in the house are the Italian butler, and a young footman.”

“If there’s nothing there, what’s the use troubling over her further?”

His Highness puffed thoughtfully at his “Petroff.” He was reflecting deeply, bitterly repenting that he had been such a fool as to tell her the truth regarding his motor-racing nomade-guerre. He could not afford to allow her to become his enemy. To abandon her at once would surely be a most injudicious action.

“At present let’s postpone our decision, Tommy,” he exclaimed at last. “There may be a way to success yet. You, Charles, see Max to-morrow, and tell him to go to London and lie low there. I’ll wire him when I want him. You have some money. Give him a tenner.”

And the man addressed soon afterwards withdrew.

The events of the next two days showed plainly that the original plans formulated by the Rev. Thomas Clayton had been abandoned.

The widow, with some trepidation, invited the Prince and his clerical friend to be her guests at Milnthorpe, but they made excuses, much to her chagrin. The exemplary vicar was compelled to return to his Bayswater parish, while the Prince was also recalled to London to race at Brooklands, making the journey, of course, on the car.

Thus Mrs Edmondson found herself left alone in the “Majestic,” with her fellow guests full of wonder at what had really occurred.

The widow, however, had been buoyed up by a few whispered words of the Prince at the moment of his departure.

“Preserve my secret as you promised, Mrs Edmondson, and come to London one day next week. You always go to the Langham – you say. I’ll call on you there next Friday. Au revoir!”

And he lifted his cap, shook her hand, and mounted at the wheel of the big mustard-coloured “racer.”

On the day appointed he called at the Langham and found her installed in one of the best suites, prepared to receive him.

He told her that, on the morrow at noon, he was to race at Brooklands against Carlier, the well-known Frenchman, both cars being of the same horse-power. The distance was one hundred miles.

She was delighted, and promised to observe every secrecy, and come down to witness the struggle. He remained to tea, chatting with her pleasantly. When he rose and bade her adieu, she sat alone for a long time thinking.

Was she dreaming? Or was it really a fact that he, Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein, had, for a few moments, held her hand tenderly? The difference of their ages was not so much, she argued – about twelve years. She was twelve years older. What did that matter, after all?

If she, plain Mrs Edmondson, of Milnthorpe, became Princess Albert of Hesse-Holstein! Phew! The very thought of it took her breath away.

She was a clever scheming woman, and had always been, ever since her school-girl days. She flattered herself that she could read the innermost secrets of a man’s heart.

Yes. She was now convinced. This man, who had reposed confidence in her and told her of his dual personality, was actually in love with her. If he did not marry her, it certainly should not be her fault.

With that decision she called Marie, her French maid, and passed into her room to dress for dinner with her sister-in-law and her husband – a barrister – with the theatre and Savoy to follow.

Next day at noon she was down at Brooklands, where a number of motor enthusiasts and men “in the trade” had assembled. She saw a tall, slim figure in grey overalls and an ugly helmet-shaped cap with dark glasses in the eye-holes, mount upon a long grey car, while a mechanic in blue cotton and a short jacket buttoned tightly, gave a last look round to see that all was working properly. The man mounted the step, the signal was given by the starters, and the two cars, pitted against each other, both grey, with huge numbers painted on the front of their bonnets, came past her like a flash, while the mechanics swung themselves half out, in order to balance the cars as they went round the bend.

After the first two or three laps the pace became terrific, and as the widow sat watching, she saw the Prince incognito, his head bent to the wind, a slim, crouched figure at the wheel driving the long car at a pace which no express train could travel.

At first he slowly forged ahead, but presently, after twenty minutes, the Frenchman gradually crept up, inch by inch. It was the test of the two cars – a comparatively new English make against a French firm.

Dick Drummond had many friends on the course. He was popular everywhere, and at regular intervals as he passed the stand where the widow was seated, a crowd of young, smart, clean-shaven men shouted to his encouragement.

Each time, with slight dust flying behind, he went round the bend, Garrett, in his dirty blue clothes, swung himself out to balance the car, while to the Prince himself all has become a blur. Travelling at that terrific pace, the slightest swerve would mean a terrible accident, therefore, he had no eyes save for the track before him. Garrett was busy every moment with the lubrication, and at the same time both feared tyre-troubles, the bugbear of the racing motorist. Such speed sets up tremendous friction and consequent heat, therefore tyre-bursts are likely, and if a tyre does “go off” while a car is travelling at that pace, the consequences may be very serious.

Many a bad accident had occurred on that track, and more than one good man had lost his life. Yet the Prince, sportsman that he was, knowing that the widow’s eyes were upon him, set his teeth hard and drove until once again he gradually drew away from his opponent, the renowned Carlier.

There were present representatives of the daily and the motor press. The race would be chronicled everywhere on the morrow. If the Frenchman won, it would be an advertisement worth many thousands of pounds to the firm for whom he was driving.

To-day every maker of motor-cars vies with his competitors, and strives strenuously to obtain the greatest advertisement. Like so many other things about us, alas! it is not the quality of the car, or of the materials used, but a car’s excellence seems to be judged by its popularity. And that popularity is a mere matter of advertisement.

The best car ever turned out by the hand of man would never be looked at if not advertised and “boomed.”

The French driver, a man who had won a dozen races, including the Circuit of the Ardennes, and the Florio Cup, was trying to get an advertisement for the particular company for whom he was the professional racer, while Dick Drummond was merely trying his English car against the Paris-built variety.

The whirr-r was constant, now approaching and now receding, as the two cars went round and round the track with monotonous regularity. Experts, men interested in various makes, stood leaning over the rails making comment.

It was agreed on every hand that Drummond was a marvel of cool level-headedness. His driving was magnificent, and yet he had apparently nothing to gain, even if he won the race. He was not financially interested, as far as was known, in the make of car he drove. He was merely a man of means, who had taken up motor-car racing as a hobby.

The Frenchman drove well, and the race, after the first three-quarters of an hour, was a keenly contested one. First Drummond would lead, and then Carlier. Once Drummond spurted and got half a lap ahead, then with the Frenchman putting on speed, he fell behind again till they were once more neck and neck.

Time after time they shot past the widow, who had eyes only for her champion. Her blue sunshade was up, and as she stood there alone she hoped against hope that the Prince – the man who had told her his secret – would prove the victor.

When he was in front, loud shouts rent the air from the men interested in the make of car he was driving, while, on the other hand, if the Frenchman gained the vantage the applause from his partisans was vociferous.

Over all was a cloud of light dust, while the wind created by the cars as they rushed past fanned the cheeks of the woman watching her champion with such deep interest.

A group of men near her were discussing him.

“Drummond is a magnificent driver,” one remarked in admiration. “Look at him coming up now. Cagno never drove like that, even in his very best race.”

“I wonder what interest he has in the Company? He surely wouldn’t race for the mere excitement,” remarked another.

“Interest!” cried a third man – and, truth to tell, he was Max Mason – “Why he has the option to buy up the whole of the concern, lock, stock, and barrel. I heard so yesterday. The company gave it to him a fortnight ago. Lawrence, the secretary, told me so. Why, by Jove! if he wins, the fortune of that make of car is secured. I suppose he has capital behind him, and will buy up the whole concern. I only wish I were in it. A tenth share would be a fortune.”

“You’re right,” remarked the first man. “Dick Drummond is a shrewd chap. If he wins he’ll make a pot of money on the deal – you see. It’ll be the biggest advertisement that a car has ever had in all the whole annals of motoring.”

Mrs Edmondson listened to all this in silence. She quite understood. The Prince, in his character of Dick Drummond, had entered into the affair with a view to a big financial deal – the purchase of the important company who were responsible for the car he was driving.

The car in question, be it said, was the actual mustard-coloured one in which she had careered about the West Riding, although she did not recognise it in its garb of dirty slate-grey.

She found it quite fascinating, standing there watching those two cars with their powerful roaring engines striving for the mastery, as mile after mile was covered at that frightful break-neck speed. Her heart was with the man bent over his wheel, whom every one believed to be a commoner, and whom she alone knew to be a prince.

And he, the cousin of the Kaiser, had actually squeezed her hand!

As the end of the race approached the excitement increased. The onlookers grouped themselves in little knots, watching critically for any sign of weakness in one or the other. But there was none. Carlier was as dogged as his opponent, and kept steadily on until at the eightieth mile he gradually overhauled the Englishman.

There were still twenty miles to cover. But Dick Drummond was behind, quite an eighth of a lap. Carlier had apparently been husbanding all his strength and power. The car he was driving was certainly a splendid one, and was behaving magnificently. Would it beat the English make?

As the last few laps were negotiated at a frightful speed the knots of onlookers became more and more enthusiastic. Some cheered Dick until they were hoarse, while others, with an interest in the car Carlier was driving, cried “Bravo! Bravo!”

The blood ran quickly in the widow’s veins. Ninety-five miles had been covered, and still Drummond was behind more than half a lap. She watched his crouching figure, with head set forward, his position never altering, his chin upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the track before him. Garrett seemed ever at work, touching this and that at the order of his master, whose face was wholly protected from the cutting wind by the ugly mask, save mouth and chin.

As the board showed ninety-seven miles he came at a fearful pace past the spot where Mrs Edmondson had again risen from her seat in her excitement. He was spurting, and so valiantly did he struggle, getting every ounce out of the hundred horse-power of his car, that he slowly, very slowly, crept towards the flying Frenchman.

“Keep on, Drummond!” shrieked the men, taking off their caps and waving them. “Don’t be beaten, old man!”

But he could not hear them above the terrible roar of his exhaust. No express train ever designed had run so quickly as he was now travelling. Official timekeepers were standing, chronometers in hand, calmly watching, and judges were making ready to declare the winner.

Every spectator stood breathless. It was really marvellous that one hundred miles could have been covered in that brief space of time while they had been watching.

Again, and yet again, the two cars flashed by, yet still Dick lagged behind.

Suddenly, however, they came round for the last lap, and as they passed the watchful widow, the Englishman like a shot from a gun, passed his opponent and won by twenty yards.

When he pulled up, after having run again round the course to slacken speed, he almost fell into the arms of the crowd of men who came up to congratulate him.

Mrs Edmondson had left her post of vantage and stood near by. She overheard one of them – it was Mason – say:

“By Jove, Dick! This is a wonderful run. You’ve broken the five, ten, and hundred mile records! The fortune of your car is made?”

Then the victor turned to his opponent and shook his hand, saying in French:

“Thank you, my dear Carlier, for a very excellent race.”

The widow, after a brief chat, returned to town by rail, while Garrett drove his master back to Dover Street.

That night his Highness dined with the widow at the Langham, and she bestowed upon him fulsome praise regarding his prowess.

“What make of car is yours?” she asked while they were lingering over their dessert in the widow’s private sitting-room.

“It’s the St. Christopher,” he answered.

“St. Christopher!” she echoed. “What a funny name to give a car!”

“It may appear so at first sight, but St. Christopher has been taken by motorists on the Continent as their patron saint – the saint who for ages has guarded the believer against the perils of the way. So it’s really appropriate, after all.”

“I heard them say that you’ve made the fortune of the car by your success to-day,” she remarked.

“Yes,” he answered carelessly. “Anybody who cared to put in a few thousands now would receive a magnificent return for their money – twenty-five per cent, within a year.”

“You think so?” she asked interestedly. “Think, Mrs Edmondson?” he echoed. “I’m sure of it! Why, the St. Christopher now holds the world’s record, and you know what that means. The makers will begin to receive far more orders than they can ever execute. Look at the Napier, the Itala, the Fiat, and others. The same thing has happened. The St. Christopher, however, is in the hands of two men only, and they, unfortunately, lack capital.”

“You should help them, if it’s such a good thing.”

“I’m doing so. Now I’ve won the race I shall put in fifteen thousand – perhaps twenty. They are seeing me to-morrow. As a matter of fact,” he added, lowering his tone, “I mean to hold controlling interest in the concern. It’s far too good a thing to miss.”