At this very moment Lord Marston knew, as he slit open another letter, that the Prince was engaging private detectives to search every possible area of the City.
It was a quest that was bound to be considerably handicapped by the fact that there were no pictures either of Miss Anderson or Lokita to help their identification.
It seemed hopeless, but at least, Lord Marston thought, the Prince had something to occupy himself with
He was suffering from what the Russians describe as tosca, an inner misery, an agony of the soul that was for every Slav a part of their innate fatalism.
In the Prince’s case it was so intense and so pregnant with distress that at times Lord Marston was afraid he might end his life rather than continue to suffer.
There was no doubt of one thing and that was that
