Free Saint Intervenes by Leslie Charteris

it; and one reporter was
so far moved as to put down a glass which was only half empty.
    “It is
a small country between the Caucasus Mountains and the Black Sea,”
said the Prince. “Once it was larger; but it has been eaten away
by many invaders. The Turks and the Russians have robbed us piecemeal of
most of our lands— although it was the Tatars themselves who gave my country its name, from their word Cherktkess, which means ‘robbers.’ That
ancient insult was long since turned to glory by my ancestor Schamyl, whose
name I bear; and in the paltry lands which are still left to me the proud
traditions of our race are carried on to this day.”
    The head
of the reporter who had put down his glass was buzzing with vague
memories.
    “Do
you still have beautiful Circassians?” he asked hun grily.
    “Of
course,” said the Prince. “For a thousand years our women have
been famed for their beauty. Even today, we export many hundreds
annually to the most distinguished harems in Turkey—a royal tax on these
transactions,” added the Prince, with engaging simplicity,
“has been of great assistance to our national budget.”
    The
reporter swallowed, and retrieved his glass hurriedly; and the cub who had
started it all asked, with bulging eyes: “What other
traditions do you have, Your Highness?”
    “Among
other things,” said the Prince, “we are probably the only
people today among whom the droit de seigneur survives. That is to
say that every woman in my country be longs to me, if and when I choose to
take her, for as long as I choose keep her in my palace.”
    “And
do you still exercise that right?” asked another journalist, with
estatic visions of headlines floating through his mind.
    The Prince
smiled, as he might have smiled at at naivety of a child.
    “If
the girl is sufficiently attractive—of course. It is a divine right bestowed
upon my family by Mohammed himself. In my country it is considered an
honour to be chosen, and the marriageable value of any girl on whom I
bestow my right is greatly increased by it.”
    From that
moment the reception was a historic success; and the news that one
reason for the Prince’s visit was to approve the final details of
a new £100,000 crown which was being prepared for him by a West End firm of
jewellers was almost an anticlimax.
    Chief
Inspector Teal read the full interview in his morn ing paper the
following day; and he was so impressed with its potentialities
that he made a personal call on the Prince that afternoon.
    “Is
this really the interview you gave, Your Highness?” he asked,
when he had introduced himself, “or are you going to repudiate it?”
    Prince
Schamyl took the paper and read it through. He was a tall well-built
man with a pointed black beard and twirled black moustaches like a
seventeenth-century Spanish grandee; and when he had finished reading he
handed the paper back with a slight bow, and fingered his moustaches
in some perplexity.
    “Why
should I repudiate it?” he inquired. “It is exactly what I
said.”
    Teal
chewed for a moment on the spearmint which even in the presence of royalty he
could not deny himself; and then he said: “In that case, Your Highness,
would you be good enough to let us give you police protection?”
    The Prince
frowned puzzledly.
    “But
are not all people in this country protected by the police?”
    “Naturally,”
said Teal. “But this is rather a special case. Have you ever heard of the
Saint?”
    Prince
Schamyl shrugged.
    “I
have heard of several.”
    “I
don’t mean that kind of saint,” the detective told him grimly.
“The Saint is the name of a notorious criminal we have here, and
something tells me that as soon as he sees this interview he’ll
be making plans to steal this crown you’re buying. If I know
anything about him, the story that you make some of your
money out of selling girls to harems, and that you exercise
this droit de seigneur, whatever that is, would be the very
thing to