What happened then . . . I wouldn’t like to have to go through that again. It was a battle. Not one letter was written – but fourteen, one after another, then three at a time, with the other two covering sheet after sheet of paper, while I bashed away on my typewriter till it glowed. It was like one of those old-fashioned parlour-games (‘What does he do? What does she do? Where did they meet?’). Each of us wanted to read his own out first, and each thought his own composition by far the best and most suitable, and those of the others completely out of the question.

‘Out of the question!’ said the Princess.

‘That’s pure kids’ stuff!’ I wanted to reply.

‘You’re so clever,’ she said, ‘you’re tying yourself in fancy knots! Now do me a favour . . .’ and the whole thing began all over again.

In the end, there were three versions left in the running. Karlchen had written a lawyer’s letter. I had written a subtle and refined one, and the Princess a clever one, so we chose hers.

Simply and clearly, it told what we had seen, and that we didn’t mean to interfere in the Collin’s family affairs and that she shouldn’t write to Adriani herself, as this would only lead to more trouble. It told her that she wasn’t to be alarmed, and in the meantime we would see what steps might be taken – but if she would permit us to telephone her once.

‘There,’ said the Princess and sealed the letter. ‘That’s that done. Now let’s post it straight away!’ It was a weight off all our minds when the letter landed in the letter-box.

‘A girl like that . . .’ I said. ‘Poor little thing!’ And they both laughed at me.

‘Give us a cigarette!’ said Karlchen, who liked smoking other people’s and using their toothpaste. (‘Friendship should be put to use,’ he would say.) ‘You remember, don’t you,’ he said into the evening silence as we strolled through the streets of Mariefred, looking at the shop-windows, ‘that I’m leaving tomorrow night?’ Bang! We’d forgotten. Yes–the week was up.

‘Won’t you stay with us a little longer, Karling?’ asked the Princess.

‘Madam,’ replied the lanky layabout and stretching out an arm, ‘unfortunately my holiday is coming to an end – I must. Ladies and gentlemen, that was a most exhausting conference!’ He stopped. ‘Well, you’re the expert on conferences . . . you civil servant.’

‘I don’t call you a writer either, chum. Old Eugen Ernst always used to say, whenever someone’s got nothing to do, he gets hold of some other people and they hold a conference. And at the end, when they’ve all spoken, there is a statement. Then it’s finished. Now, back to the typing grindstone and let’s have another telegram-postcard for Jakopp!’ I obeyed.