C. N. Williamson
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“Motor to Biarritz? You must be mad,” said Dick Waring.
“Why?” I asked; though I knew why as well as he. “A nice way to receive an invitation.”
“If you must know, it’s because the King of Spain will be there, visiting his English fiancée,” Dick answered.
“I wish him happiness,” said I. “I hear he’s a fine young fellow. Why isn’t there room in Biarritz for the King and for me?”
“The detectives won’t think there is, nor will they give you credit for your generous sentiments,” said Dick.
“They won’t know I’m there.”
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