“You are nervous,” says he. “Naturally. However, you will have the night to accustom yourself to the—ah, novelty of your situation. His highness retired early, with a slight headache no doubt brought on by the fatigue of his journey, so you will be undisturbed. Your host, Count von Tarlenheim, has given particular instructions. You will meet him briefly tomorrow, by the way, before we set out for the border. An amiable dotard. His highness—or I should say, your highness—has been quite formal with him so far, so there will be no questions asked if you are no more forthcoming tomorrow than politeness demands.”

“Thank God for that,” says I. I wanted time to play myself in, so to speak, and the thought of chattering to a breakfast table was out of court altogether.

“The only people who have been close to you on the journey, apart from myself, are Dr Ostred, your physician, and young Josef, your valet. He has been in your service only a day, your old valet, Einar, having become indisposed shortly after we set out.”

“Convenient,” says I. “Will he live?”

“Of course. You are much concerned about him.” He turned, and I leaped violently as the door opened, and a little anxious-looking chap came in.

“Ah, Ostred,” says Detchard, and the little chap blinked, looked at me, at Detchard, and back at me again.

“I thought…” he stammered. “That is—your pardon, highness. I supposed…you had retired…that you would be in bed.” He looked helplessly to Detchard, and I thought, by heaven, he thinks I’m the real man. He couldn’t make out what had gone wrong. So here was a first-rate chance to put the thing to the test; if I could fool my own doctor I could fool anyone.

“I have a headache,” says I, quite gently. “That doesn’t mean that I have to take to my bed.”

“No, no…of course not, highness.” He licked his lips.

“Perhaps you might take his highness’s pulse, doctor,” says Detchard, and the little fellow came over and took my wrist as though it was made of porcelain. There were beads of sweat on his brow.

“A little swift,” he muttered, and glanced at my face. He was scared and puzzled, and then he literally leaped back as though he had seen a ghost.

“He…he…” he exclaimed, pointing.

“No, Ostred,” says Detchard. “He is not the prince.”

“But—” the little doctor gargled speechlessly, and I couldn’t help laughing. “But he is—identical! Dear Jesus! I could not believe it! I was sure, when I saw him, that something had gone amiss—that it was still the prince. My God!”

“What gave him away?” asks Detchard.

“The scars. They are new, and pink.”