“A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr.

Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already

managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they

were hardly from the same class of society.”


“No, I am descending.”


“I beg pardon.”


“My last client of the sort was a king.”


“Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?”


“The King of Scandinavia.”


“What! Had he lost his wife?”


“You can understand,” said Holmes suavely, “that I extend to

the affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in

yours.”


“Of course! Very right! very right! I’m sure I beg pardon. As to my

own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in

forming an opinion.”


“Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints,

nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct—this article, for

example, as to the disappearance of the bride.”


Lord St. Simon glanced over it. “Yes, it is correct, as far as it

goes.”


“But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer an

opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by questioning

you.”


“Pray do so.”


“When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?”


“In San Francisco, a year ago.”


“You were travelling in the States?”


“Yes.”


“Did you become engaged then?”


“No.”


“But you were on a friendly footing?”


“I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused.”


“Her father is very rich?”


“He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope.”


“And how did he make his money?”


“In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold, invested

it, and came up by leaps and bounds.”


“Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady’s—your

wife’s character?”


The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the fire.