"I wish to see the King," said Henri in a loud tone. Because at that

moment the secretary, lamp and inkwell and all, retired suddenly to a

very great distance, as if one had viewed them through the reverse end

of an opera glass.

The secretary knew Henri. He, too, eyed him curiously.

"The King has retired, monsieur."

"I think," said Henri in a dangerous tone, "that he will see me."

To tell the truth, the secretary rather thought so too. There was a

strange rumor going round, to the effect that the boy had followed a

woman to England at a critical time. Which would have been a pity, the

secretary thought. There were so many women, and so few men like Henri.

The secretary considered gravely. Henri was by that time in a chair, but

it moved about so that he had to hold very tight to the arms. When he

looked up again the secretary had picked up his soft black hat and was

at the door.

"I shall inquire," he said. Henri saluted him stiffly, with his left

hand, as he went out.

The secretary went to His Majesty's equerry, who was in the next house

playing solitaire and trying to forget the family he had left on the

other side of the line.

So it was that in due time Henri again traversed miles of path and

pavement, between tall borders of wild sea grass, miles which perhaps

were a hundred yards. And went round the screen, and--found the King

on the hearthrug. But when he drew himself stiffly to attention he

overdid the thing rather and went over backward with a crash.

He was up again almost immediately, very flushed and uncomfortable.

After that he kept himself in hand, but the King, who had a way all his

own of forgetting his divine right to rule, and a great many other

things--the King watched him gravely.

Henri sat in a chair and made a clean breast of it. Because he was

feeling rather strange he told a great many things that an agent of the

secret service is hardly expected to reveal to his king. He mentioned,

for instance, the color of Sara Lee's eyes, and the way she bandaged,

like one who had been trained.

Once, in the very middle of his narrative, where he had put the letter

from the Front in his pocket and decided to go to England anyhow, he

stopped and hummed Rene's version of Tipperary. Only a bar or two.

Then he remembered.

But one thing brought him round with a start.




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