Detchard snapped his teeth in annoyance. “The scars, of course. I had forgotten. That might have cost us dear. However, we have the means to put it right.” And he took out a flask, which I suppose Rudi had given him, and daubed at my wounds until he and the doctor were satisfied.

“There,” says Detchard. “When did you last shave your head?”

“Last night.”

“It will do for the moment. Ostred will attend to it again tomorrow.” He pulled out his watch. “Now, it may be best if you and I, doctor, return to our hosts.” For my benefit he rattled off a few more details about Tarlenheim and the arrangements for the morning. “Your valet will look in shortly, to see you to bed,” he concluded. “You may sleep easily, believe me. Now that I have seen you, my doubts are at rest. I seriously question if your own father would detect the imposture. Ha! You see—I said ‘your’ own father.” He smiled grimly. “I half believe in you myself. And so, your highness, I have the honour to bid you good-night.”

They withdrew, bowing, and left me trembling—but for once it wasn’t funk. I was elated—I had fooled Ostred. By God, it was going to work. I took a turn round the room, grinning to myself, drank another glass of brandy, and another, and stood beaming at myself in the mirror. Well, Prince Harry, thinks I, if only Elspeth could see you now. And old moneybags Morrison. And Lord Godalmighty Cardigan. He’d be glad enough to have royalty back in his flea-bitten 11th Hussars. For I was royal, for the moment—a full-blown prince of the blood, no less, until—aye, until Bismarck’s little game was played out. And then—oh, the blazes with him. I had another glass of brandy and took stock of my royal surroundings.

Sumptuous wasn’t the word for them—silk sheets, lace pillow, solid silver cup and plate by the bed—with breast of chicken under a napkin, bigod, in case I felt peckish. I resisted a temptation to slip the plate into a pocket—plenty of time for lifting the lumber later. This was only a staging-post on the journey, after all; the pick of the loot would be in the palace of Strackenz. But I felt I could rough it here for the night—excellent liquor, a warm fire, cigars in a tooled leather box, even the pot under the bed was of the best china, with little fat-arsed cherubs running round it. I plumped back on the bed—it was like floating on a cloud. Well, thinks I, they may talk about cares of state, and uneasy lies the head and all that tommy-rot, but this is the life for old Flashy. You may take my word for it, next time you hear about the burdens of monarchy, that royalty do themselves damned proud. I’ve been one; I know.