The Project Gutenberg eBook of The King Who Went on Strike, by Pearson Choate.

he King leant against the stone balustrade, which runs round the roof of Buckingham Palace, and looked about him. All around him, above him, and below him, the night was ablaze with a myriad lights. Loyal Londoners, in accordance with their custom, were closing their Coronation celebrations with illuminations, with fireworks, and with good-humoured horse-play in the crowded streets. In spite of gloomy predictions to the contrary, the proverbial Coronation weather of the last day or two had not failed. A radiant June day had given place to a wonderful June night. Here, on the palace roof, high up above the tumult and the shouting the night air was cool and fragrant. The King rested his elbows on the broad top of the carved stone balustrade. He was very weary. But he was glad to be out in the open air once again. And he was gladder still, at last, to be alone—

"A tall, fair, goodlooking young man, still in the early twenties, with an open, almost boyish face": "A young man of athletic build, clean-shaven, and very like his dead brother, the Prince, but lacking, perhaps, something of the Prince's personal distinction, and charm": "Thick, fair, curly hair, blue eyes, and a happy, smiling mouth": "A typical young English naval officer, with an eager, boyish face, unclouded, as yet, by any shadow of his high destiny"—it was in phrases such as these that the descriptive writers in the newspapers had described, more or less adequately, the new King's outward appearance. What he was inwardly, what the inner man thought, and felt, and suffered, was not within their province, or their knowledge. At the moment, his outward appearance was completed by an easy fitting, black, smoking jacket, plain evening dress trousers, and a pair of shabby dancing pumps, into which he had changed immediately after the state banquet, which had been the final ordeal of his long and exhausting official day. It was characteristic of the inner man, about whom so little was known, that he should have been thus impatient to throw off the gorgeous uniform, and the many unearned decorations, which the banquet had necessitated. It was characteristic of him, too, that he should be bareheaded, now, and drawing absently at a pipe, which he had forgotten to fill—

All the crowded events of the long, tense, and exhausting Coronation Day which was, at last, happily at an end had seemed strangely unreal to the King. The slow and stately progress to the Abbey in the morning, the huge gilt state coach, the team of cream horses, the gold-coated powdered footmen, the bodyguard of plumed Household Cavalry, the decorated streets, the crowds, the wild cheering, the thousand faces, the thousand eyes, his own mechanical bowing, his own mechanical smile; the protracted, exhausting ceremony in the Abbey, the ermine-caped peers and peeresses, the grotesque gorgeously clad officers of state, the tall figure of the venerable Archbishop with his hands raised in benediction, his own heavy royal robes, the Crown, the bursts of music and of song, the pealing bells, the brilliant uniforms of the soldiery; the streets once again, the crowds and the wild cheering, his own mechanical bowing, his own mechanical smile, the heat, the glitter and the glare, the tension, the thousand flushed curious faces, the thousand eyes, the slow movement of the coach, the secret, hidden, inward fear; the all too short rest in the afternoon, with its few minutes of troubled, nightmare sleep; the interminable state banquet in the evening, the gold plate, the uniforms, the colours, and the lights, the Family, strangely subservient, the congratulations, the speeches, the homage; the dense crowd round the palace after the banquet, his own repeated appearance at the huge, open window above the main entrance, the night air, the thousand eyes yet once again, the cheering, and the lights—all these things had been unreal, unbelievable, the bewildering phantasmagoria of a fevered dream—

Now, as he leant against the roof balustrade, the same sense of unreality which had haunted him all day was still with him.

The trees in the densely thronged Mall were hung with innumerable, coloured electric lights. A blaze of yellow, smokeless flambeaux, on the left, marked the line of Carlton House Terrace. "God Save the King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second"—house after house, in the terrace, repeated the loyal prayers in glittering letters of fire. The same devices were reproduced, in a picturesque setting of crowns and flags, on the lavishly illuminated Admiralty Arch. Beyond was the glare of Trafalgar Square, where the Nelson Column, pricked out in red, white, and blue lamps, soared aloft, a shaft of vivid colours against the dark blue of the night sky. Further away, on the right, the familiar, luminous clock face of Big Ben, which showed that it was already nearing midnight, shone out, brightly, above the golden brilliance of Whitehall. Westminster Abbey towers were touched with fire. Queen Anne's Mansion was a broad, solid wedge of blazing, various colour. Up and down the square tower of the Westminster Cathedral ran a hand of flame, writing a loyal motto, in crabbed, monkish Latin, difficult to translate. On the left, beyond the Green Park, shone the lights of Piccadilly, where the fronts of the clubs vied in patriotic radiance. From the Green Park itself, and from Hyde Park, in the distance, soared rockets, which burst into clusters of red, white, and blue stars, and showers of multi-coloured rain. The cheers of the crowds, in the parks, and in the streets, rose with the rockets, in a regular, muffled roar. Overhead, above the lights, above the rockets, a score or more of illuminated aeroplanes hummed, diving, nose-spinning, side-slipping, and looping the loop, with the agility, the grace, and the breathless swiftness of the aerial acrobats who know not fear.

Did the people know, the cheering people, far down below there, in the crowded parks, and illuminated streets, that, stereotyped formulae as they were, there was real need, now, for those prayers?

A light, night breeze from the west, blew softly across the palace roof, rustling the silken folds of the Royal Standard, as it hung limply against the fifty-foot flagstaff, immediately above the King's head. With the quick, subconscious instinct of the trained sailor, he looked up to see if the flag was in order. To be "a sailor, not a Prince" had been, for years, his publicly avowed ambition, an ambition which had only recently been thwarted. His interest in this, no doubt, trivial matter of a flag was typical of the lasting impression which his long and happy years of naval service had left upon his character. In most things, small and great, the Navy had taught him, the Navy had formed him.

The flag was correct. The very knots in the rope left no loophole for criticism.

The small, gilt Royal Crown, which normally surmounted the flagstaff had been removed. In its place a large crown of coloured, electric lamps had been erected, as a finishing touch to the palace illuminations. Above the lights of this crown, the pointed shaft of the lightning conductor, which ran up the flagstaff, protruded, clearly visible against the night sky.

A slow smile lit up the King's face, and something of his weariness fell from him, as he saw the pointed shaft of the lightning conductor.

Here, at last, was reality, presented, paradoxically enough, in the form of an allegory, a symbol.

At the close of one of the earliest of the many, long, informal talks, in the course of which the old Duke had set himself to explain to the young and inexperienced Prince, who had been called, so unexpectedly, to the throne, a few of the more urgent problems of Government, the King had brought the veteran Prime Minister up on to the palace roof, to see the new roof garden, which was the only innovation he had made, so far, in the palace arrangements, an innovation due to his pleasant recollection of nights of shore leave spent in the roof gardens of New York, during his service with the Atlantic Fleet. The old Duke had admired the flowers, and approved the tubbed trees; then he had looked up at the flagstaff, where the Royal Standard had been flying in a noble breeze; the juxtaposition of the pointed shaft of the lightning conductor, and the Royal Crown, at the top of the flagstaff, had caught his eye; and he had called the King's attention to it, at once, with an arresting gesture.

"It is an allegory, a symbol, sir," he had said, in his vivid, forceful way. "You wear the Crown. I am the lightning conductor. It will be my duty, and the honour of my life, when the storm breaks, to take the full shock of the lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain on your head, unshaken."

There had been no need for the King to ask of what impending storm the old Duke spoke. From the first, in all his talk, the increasing menace of the world-wide revolutionary conspiracy had been the veteran statesman's most constant theme.

"In your grandfather's time revolution in England was impossible, sir. In your father's time it was possible, but unthinkable. If your brother had lived, it might have remained unthinkable for years, perhaps for the whole of his reign." "Like your father, your brother had the secret of arousing personal loyalty. The Prince smiled, and men and women loved him. For years he had been preparing himself, and consolidating his hold on the people, making ready for the struggle which he saw he must come." "It is not for me to disguise from you, sir, that your brother's death has given a new impetus to the revolutionary movement in this country. A younger son, a Prince who never expected, who was never expected, to reign—against you, sir, the international revolutionary forces feel that they have their first real chance in England. The Internationalists, and the Communists, on the Continent, and the extremists amongst our own Labour leaders, are likely to effect a working agreement. It is necessary that we should remember, that it has been by such agreements, that Europe has been swept almost clear of Kings, from end to end." "We must be prepared. We are prepared. But it is of vital importance that you, sir, should understand the position. Make no mistake, sir. They would haul down your Royal Standard, from the flagstaff here, sir, and run up their pitiable rag of a Red Flag, in its place."

A new understanding of the difficulties that his father had faced, of the heavy burden that he had borne, for so many years, without complaint, had come to the King, in recent weeks. More poignant still was the new understanding of, and the new sympathy with, his dead brother, the Prince, that the last few weeks had brought him. His father had always been remote. Between him, and his brother, the Prince, there had been real friendship, and familiar, easy intercourse, in spite of the Prince's splendid future, in spite of his own frequent absences at sea. But he had not known. He had not understood. With a sailor's contemptuous impatience in such matters, he had always turned an almost deaf ear to the Prince's talk of politics and parties. The Prince's splendid future! And he stood now, in the Prince's place.

Once again, the King stood by the bed, in his brother's room, late in the afternoon of the day, when the disease, which had stricken the Prince so inexplicably, within a few weeks of their father's death, had done its worst, and it was known that he, too, must die, die, after all, uncrowned.

Outside the sun was setting, and the London sparrows were twittering their vesper hymn.

"They tell me that I have got 'the route' Alfred," he whispered painfully. "I am not afraid to die. But I would live if I could. I know, no one knows as I know, what this will mean to you. They tell me I mustn't talk. I can't talk.

"The Duke is your man. Trust the Duke! He will not fail you. He will be your sheet anchor. With the Duke to steady the ship, you will ride out the storm."

Many men had mourned the Prince's death, but no man had mourned it, as had the veteran Prime Minister. Between the Duke and the Prince, it was notorious, there had been a friendship, a constant association, personal and political, closer than that between many a father and son. Politically, the Prince's death must have been a staggering blow to the Duke. And yet the wonderful old man had never faltered. Early and late, he had laboured, with inexhaustible patience, at times with a surprising freedom, and yet always with a tact which made his freedom possible, to place his unrivalled knowledge, and his ripe wisdom, untouched by party spirit, at the service of a new, a young, and an inexperienced King.

Still leaning wearily as he was against the roof balustrade, he turned now, as he thought of the old Duke, and looked across the shadowed darkness of St. James's Park, at the golden glare thrown up by the illuminations in Whitehall. There, in the silent, rather comfortless, and closed in house, in Downing Street, where he had lived, with hardly a break, for so many years, his father's minister, his brother's friend, the old Duke, even now, as likely as not, was hard at work, indomitable, tireless, resourceful, sparing neither himself, nor his subordinates, so that he, the King, "a sailor, not a Prince," might reign.

It was odd, but the thought that he might fail to support the Duke, that he might not come up to the standard which the Duke might set for him, had more weight with him, than any thought of the people, of the nation. It was an instance of the Duke's personal magnetism, of course. His personal magnetism, his dominance, had been talked about for years. Did the Duke dominate him? No. But the Duke was a living, forceful personality, a man, a strong man. The people, the nation—well, they were only phantoms; they were the thousand, flushed, curious faces; the thousand eyes; the cheering crowds, far away down there, in the darkness, in the crowded parks and illuminated streets below.

It was, in a sense, a triumph, or at least, a notable success, for the Duke, that he, the King, had been crowned; that the day had passed without hostile demonstrations, without a single regrettable incident. What reward could he give, what return could he make, to the old statesman, for his ungrudging, tireless service? The Duke was his servant. In intimate, familiar talk, he never failed to call him "sir." The Duke must be his friend. His friend? A King could have no friends. A man apart, isolated, lonely, and remote, as his father had always been, a King was condemned to live alone.

A sudden, unbearable sense of loneliness, a terror of himself, a terror of this new, isolated, remote life, in which he was to be denied even the poor palliative of friendship, swept over the King. He had longed to be alone. He had come up, out here, on to the palace roof, to be alone. He had been eager to escape from the curious faces, from the thousand eyes. But now he longed for human companionship, for human sympathy, for human hands.

Judith, tall and slender, with her deep, dark, mysterious eyes, and her crown of jet black hair; Judith, with her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her eyes aglow, and her hand stretched out to him in joyous welcome—the King saw, and felt, her bodily presence, as in a vision, and his loneliness, and his terror, his weariness, and his fever, fell from him.

It would be dangerous. It was always dangerous. It would be more dangerous, tonight, than ever before. But he would go. He must go. All day he had smiled, and bowed, and posed, for the multitude, playing his part in the gorgeous, public pageantry, which the multitude loved, an actor playing his part, an actor, the servant of the public. Surely, now, he might wrest a few brief hours, from the night, for himself?

A few brief hours with Judith, a few brief hours of rest, of rural peace, and quiet talk; a romp with the Imps, who would be fast asleep now, tucked up in their cots, each clutching some cherished toy, some strange, woolly animal, or some dearly prized, deadly instrument of mimic war, but who would awake, with their prattle, like the birds, at dawn; a few minutes of Uncle Bond's diverting nonsense, about the next instalment of his forthcoming serial, and the dire distresses he had invented for his latest business girl heroine—a few brief hours, so spent, would bring him back to the palace, refreshed and strengthened, ready to shoulder, once again, the heavy burden of his isolation, the heavy burden which seemed now too heavy to be borne.

Yes. Late as it was, he would go to Judith. A night visit? It would be after one o'clock in the morning, when he arrived. Would Judith mind? Surely not! Judith and he were outside conventions.

With the quick, impulsive movement of the man who puts an end to hesitation, the King swung round from the stone balustrade, crossed the roof, and so passed, without another glance at the blazing Coronation illuminations, or at the night sky, down the broad, wrought-iron staircase which led from the roof into the palace.

n the anteroom to his own newly decorated suite of rooms, the King found two of his valets still on duty. One of them was Smith, the rubicund, grizzled old sailor, who had been his servant in the Navy. Dismissing the other man with a gesture, the King beckoned to Smith, and entered his dressing room.

"I do not want to be disturbed, in the morning, until I ring my bell, Smith," he announced. "I shall probably go out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, last thing. See that the door into the garden is left open. That is all now. Good-night."

Smith withdrew, at once, with the bob of his bullet-shaped head, which was the nearest approach he could make to the bow required by etiquette.

Of all the rooms in the palace which he used habitually, this room had become the most distasteful to the King. The massive, old-fashioned, mahogany furniture, the heavy curtains drawn right across the windows, the thick-piled carpet, and the softly shaded lights, in the room, oppressed him, not so much because of what they were in themselves, as because of what they were associated with, already, in his own mind. It was here that he dressed for Court functions. It was here that he dressed, three or four times a day, not for his own pleasure and convenience, but "suitably for the occasion."

Moving swiftly about the room, he proceeded to ransack drawers, and to fling open wardrobe doors, as he searched for a particular blue serge suit, of which the Royal staff of valets strongly disapproved.

The blue serge suit, instinct with the Navy style that was so much to his mind, together with the grey felt hat, and the light dust coat, which he selected, made an odd, and subtle, difference in his appearance. Before, even in the easy undress of his smoking jacket, he had been—the King. Now he was, in every detail, merely a young naval officer in mufti, rejoicing in shore leave.

Looking at himself in the huge, full-length mirror which stood immediately in front of the heavily curtained windows, the King approved this result.

The young naval officer in mufti, who looked back at the King out of the cunningly lighted mirror, tall, fair, and clean-shaven, had retained much of the unconscious pride of youth. The face was, as yet, only lightly marked by the lines, the thoughtful frown, and the dark shadows, which are the insignia of a heavier burden, of a greater responsibility, and of a more constant anxiety, and care, than any known at sea. The mouth and chin were pronounced and firm, moulded by the habit of command. The lips were a trifle full, and not untouched by passion. A student of that facial character, which all men, princes and peasants alike, must carry about with them, wherever they go, would have said that this young man had a will of his own, which might be expressed by rash and impetuous action. The brow was broad and high. This was a young man capable of thought, and of emotion. Something of the healthy tan, which long exposure to wind and weather leaves, still lingered on the cheeks, but a slight puffiness under the tired blue eyes, told of weariness, and of flagging physical condition.

"A breath of Judith's country air will certainly do me good. It will freshen me up," the King muttered.

Swinging round from the mirror, he crossed the room, to the door, and switched off all the lights. Then he opened the door. The long corridor outside, which led from his suite of rooms to the central landing, and so to the main staircase in the palace, was still brilliantly lit. Closing the dressing room door behind him, the King slipped quickly down the corridor. Avoiding the central landing, and the main staircase, which lay to his right, he turned to the left, up a short passage, which brought him to the head of a private staircase, which was strictly reserved for his personal use. This staircase led down to the ground floor of the palace, and ended in a small, palm and orange tree decorated lounge, half vestibule, and half conservatory, which had been a favourite retreat of his father. A glass door opened out of the lounge into the palace garden. This door, as he had directed, had been left open. Quickly descending the staircase, the King passed through the lounge, out by the open door, into the garden.

A sharp glance, first to the right, and then to the left, assured him that he was unobserved. By his order, the posts of the military guard, and the beats of the police, on duty round the palace, had been altered recently, so that he could use this door untrammelled by their compliments. An unmistakable impatience with even necessary observation of his personal movements had already become known as one of the new King's most pronounced characteristics, and the military, and the police authorities, alike, had done their best to meet his wishes in the matter, although his wishes had added greatly to their difficulties.

The palace garden was full of the fragrance of the wonderful summer night. The west breeze blew softly along the paths, and rustled amongst the innumerable leaves of the overhanging trees. A few minutes of brisk walking led the King through the darkness of the shrubberies, across the deserted lawns, and past the shining, light-reflecting water of the lake, to the boundary wall at the far end of the garden.

A small, old, and formerly little used wooden door in this wall was his objective.

Lately, by his order, this door had been repainted, and fitted with a new lock. One or two members of the palace household staff were housed in Lower Grosvenor Place, the thoroughfare on to which the wall abutted. It was, ostensibly, in order that these trustworthy and discreet members of the household staff might be able to pass in and out of the door, unchallenged, and so use the short cut through the garden to the palace, that the King had considerately directed that the lock on the door should be renewed, and that new keys should be distributed.

It was one of these new keys which he now produced from his own pocket, and, after a hurried glance behind him to assure himself that he was still unobserved, fitted into the lock.

Lower Grosvenor Place, normally a quiet and deserted thoroughfare was, tonight, for once, thronged with people. A cheering, singing rollicking crowd, the backwash of the larger crowds, which had been attracted to the palace, and to the display of fireworks in the parks, had taken possession of the roadway. For a moment, the noise of the crowd, and the lights of the street, coming so abruptly after the silence, and the secluded darkness of the garden, disconcerted the King. Next moment, smiling a little at the thought of his own bizarre position, he darted into the crowd, and began to work his way across the road.

A little company of West End revellers, half a dozen youthful dandies from the clubs, and as many daringly dressed women, who were moving down the centre of the road, with their arms linked, singing at the top of their voices, deliberately intercepted him, and circling swiftly round him, held him prisoner.

"Where are your colours, old man?" one of the women demanded, in an affected, provocative drawl. She was young, and, in spite of her artificial complexion, and dyed eyebrows, she still retained a suggestion of prettiness, and even of freshness. "Here! This is what you want!"

As she spoke, she caught hold of the lapel of the King's coat, and pinned to it a large rosette of red, white, and blue ribbons.

"There! That looks better," she declared. "You don't want people to think you're one of these Communist cads, and in favour of a revolution, do you?"

That he, the King, should be suspected of being in favour of revolution struck him as irresistibly absurd. Then the second thought which is so often nearer to the truth than the first, supervened. After all, was the idea so absurd? Was he not—an unwilling King? Had he not been increasingly conscious, of late, of a thought lurking at the back of his mind, that he, of all men, had, perhaps, least to lose, and most to gain, in the welter and chaos of revolution? What would he lose? The intolerable burden of his isolation: the responsibility, and the exacting demands of the great position, into which he had been thrust so unexpectedly, and so much against his will. What would he gain? Liberty, Equality, Fraternity! The revolutionary slogan voiced his own personal needs. His laughter died away.

Happily, a precocious, fair-haired youth, who was leaning on the shoulder of the rosette-distributing girl, broke the awkward little silence which ensued.

"Chuck it, Doris! Can't you see he's one of us?" he remarked. "He's got Navy written all over him."

"Mind your own business, Bobbie, and I'll mind mine," Doris drawled, unperturbed. "He's a nice boy, but he'd forgotten his rosette. No man, who isn't wearing the right colours, is going to pass me by, tonight, unchallenged."

"But now that I am wearing the right colours, you will let me pass?" he suggested. "I am in rather a hurry."

Bobbie promptly dragged the laughing and protesting Doris to one side, and so left the road clear for the King.

The King dived hastily, once again, into the crowd. A sudden, and curiously belated, fear of recognition, here in the immediate vicinity of the palace, lent wings to his feet. No doubt the reckless audacity of his excursion almost precluded the possibility of recognition. And yet thousands of these people had seen him, at close quarters, only a few hours ago.

So they knew about the impending storm, and they were already taking sides. He looked at the rollicking crowd which surged about him, now, with new interest. Red, white, and blue rosettes, similar to the one which was pinned to his own coat, were being worn everywhere. The right colours appeared to be popular. In the elaborate, secret, protective schemes, lettered for code purposes, in the Greek alphabet, from Alpha to Gamma, which the old Duke of Northborough had laid before him, to demonstrate the Cabinet's readiness for every eventuality, the loyalty of the people had no place. Might not that loyalty render the old Duke's schemes unnecessary? But the old Duke wanted, he seemed almost anxious, to force a fight. And the old Duke was, of course, right.

By this time, the King had succeeded in working his way across the road. He turned now, mechanically to his left, down a quiet, side street, which ended in a cul-de-sac, but afforded, on the right, an entrance to one of those odd, shut in havens of coach-houses and stables, which are to be found all over the West End of London, tucked away behind the great houses, from which they usually take their directory title, with the addition of that admirably significant word, mews. Here, in a small, lock-up garage, which he had contrived to rent in the name of a youthful member of his personal, secretarial staff, the King kept a two-seated, powerfully engined, motor car. Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage, a light-hearted but discreet, cadet of a good house, had also lent his name for the purchase of the car. In recognition of Blunt's complaisance in the matter, the King had allowed him to accompany him in one or two harmless Caliph Haroun Al Raschid night interludes, in which the car had figured; but Blunt, as Vizier, had no idea that the King, his Caliph, used the car, as now, for solitary excursions.

The police constable on the beat happened to be testing, with his bull's-eye lantern in action, the fastenings of the adjacent coach-houses and stables, in the dimly lit mews, when the King arrived at the garage. Recognizing in the King, as he thought, a resident in one of the neighbouring houses, the constable saluted him respectfully, and helped him to open the garage doors, and run out the car.

"You'll find the traffic difficult tonight, sir, I'm thinking," he remarked, with a hint of a London tamed Irish brogue. "They turned the people out of the parks, when the fireworks finished, a full half hour ago, but, bless you, they are in no hurry to go home. Well, it's one night in a lifetime, as you might say, isn't it, sir? And, beyond holding up the traffic, there's no harm in the people—they're just lively, that's all. There'll be a good many of them will lie in late, when they do get to bed, in the morning, I'm thinking. But the tiredest man, in all London, this night, and in the whole Empire, too, if it comes to that, I should think must be the King himself, God bless him! Did you get a good view of him, yourself, sir? I was in duty in Whitehall for the procession, and barring a yard or two, I was as close to him then, as I am, now, to you. As fine, and upstanding a young fellow, as you could wish to see, he is, too, and as like his poor dead brother, the Prince, God rest his soul! as two peas. But he looked tired, I thought. I hope they won't work him too hard, at first. He's only a young man still, and he's got his troubles before him, they say, although to look at the people, tonight, you wouldn't think so, would you? But give him his chance, and he'll do as well as his brother, the Prince, I say, for all that he's a sailor. I'm an old Guardsman, myself, sir, the same as the Prince was, but, after all, it's time you had your turn, in the Senior Service, isn't it, sir?"

Busy putting on the thick leather motor coat, and adjusting the goggles, which he kept stored in the car, the King listened to the constable's garrulous, friendly talk with rich amusement, not untouched by a more serious interest. He almost wished that he could reveal his real identity to the man, and then shake hands with him. Surely the loyalty of the people had been underestimated? This garrulous police constable had a juster appreciation, and a more sympathetic understanding, of the difficulties and the dangers of his position, than he had ever imagined possible.

With the constable's assistance the King closed, and re-locked the garage doors. Then he slipped a handful of loose silver into the man's not too ready palm, and sprang up into his seat at the steering wheel of the car.

"Liquidate that in drinking to the King's health, constable," he directed, as he started the car. "Drink it to the frustration of all the King's enemies."

A moment later, the car leapt forward, out of the dimly lit mews, swung up the quiet side street, beyond, and so passed into the densely thronged roadway in Lower Grosvenor Place.

The police constable's prediction as to the difficulties of the traffic proved more than justified. In Grosvenor Place, the King found that he could only advance at a snail's pace, sounding his siren continuously. Over and over again, he had hurriedly to apply all his brakes. The crowd, singing, cheering, and rollicking, had taken complete possession of the roadway, and ignored the approach of all vehicles of whatsoever kind. Fellow motorists, in like case with himself, grinned at the King, in friendly, mutual commiseration. For his part, it was with difficulty, that he restrained his impatience, and kept his temper. He was still far too close to the palace for his peace of mind.

At Hyde Park Corner, the police, mounted and on foot, had contrived to maintain a narrow fairway, which made real, although still slow, progress through the locked traffic possible. But in Park Lane, the crowd had it all their own way again, spread out across the road, and indulging in rough horse-play, as nearly out of hand as the London crowd ever permits itself to go. Happily, by the Marble Arch, the road cleared once more. In Oxford Street, in spite of the brilliant illuminations of the famous shops and stores, and the huge crowds which they had attracted there, the King found that he could slightly increase his speed. When he swung, at last, into Tottenham Court Road, and so headed the car directly north, the traffic, by comparison with that through which he had just passed, seemed almost normal. Free now from the necessity of extra vigilance, and only occasionally called upon to sound his siren, or to apply his brakes, he was able to open out the car considerably, and settle himself more comfortably at the steering wheel.

t was a wonderful summer night. Here, as the car ran out into the quieter, less crowded, and more humbly illuminated area of the inner suburbs, the night reasserted itself. Rising late, above the roofs and twisted chimney pots, a large, round, golden moon hung low in the dark blue sky. The rush of air, stirred by the throbbing car, was cool and fresh. Naturally, and inevitably, the King's thoughts turned now, once again, to Judith.

It was on just such a wonderful summer night, as this, in early June, a year ago, that he had first seen Judith.

On that memorable night, the King had driven alone, out of London, late at night, just as he was driving now, at the end of a fortnight's leave, which he had spent incognito, in town. Soon after he had run through the fringe of the outer suburbs, which he was even then entering, with four hundred odd miles of road between him and the Naval Base in Scotland, where he was due to rejoin his ship, and with barely time to make them good, the car he was driving had developed engine trouble. A few minutes of frenzied tinkering had set the car going again, but the engine had only served to carry him well clear of the town, out into the sleeping countryside, when it had failed, once more, this time completely, and he had found himself stranded, at the side of the lonely, deserted, country road, the victim of a permanent breakdown.

The King smiled to himself, now, as he recalled his reckless, humorous appreciation of that situation. In those days, "a sailor, not a Prince," he had had a light heart. Nothing had been able to disturb his equanimity for long.

Abandoning the broken down car, almost at once, at the side of the road, he had set out, adventurously, on foot, to look for succour. The night had been, then, as now, cool, fragrant, and moonlit. Soon a narrow, winding, wooded lane, on the left of the road, had attracted him. Turning down this lane, he had followed its twisting, tree-shadowed course, for over a mile or more, until, suddenly, he had come upon the small lodge, and open carriage gate, of an isolated country house, which stood, a little back from the road, surrounded by tall trees.

The short, moonlit drive, where the rhododendron bushes and the laburnum trees were in full blossom, had led him to the front of the silent, darkened house.

The King remembered vividly the odd sense of impending romance, the little thrill of excitement, and of expectancy, with which he had rung the front door bell.

And then he had heard a movement on his right, and he had turned, and he had seen Judith—seen Judith, for the first time.

She had slipped through the open window door, on his right, on to the verandah, which ran all round the shadowy house, and she had stood there, close beside him, tall and slender, surrounded by the ghostly white blossoms of the clematis creeper, which covered the verandah pillars and rail—Judith with her cheeks delicately flushed, her deep, dark, mysterious eyes aglow, and her wealth of jet black hair knotted loosely at her neck, Judith clad in a Japanese kimono of gorgeous colours, from under which peeped little wisps of spotless white linen, and filmy lace.

The King laughed softly to himself, as he recalled that it was he, and not Judith, who had been shy and embarrassed, that it was he, and not Judith, who had blushed and stammered—until Judith had come to his rescue, understanding and accepting his incoherent apologies and explanations, almost before he had uttered them, and taking absolute command of him, and of the whole delightfully bizarre situation from that moment—

The necessity of avoiding a couple of belated country carts, moving slowly forward towards Covent Garden, at this point, broke abruptly into the King's reverie. The powerfully engined car was running smoothly, and at a high speed now, along the level surface of one of the outer suburban tramway tracks—

It was Judith who had promptly roused old Jevons, the gardener, and sent him off, post haste, to take charge of the derelict car. It was Judith who, greatly daring, had penetrated into the jealously guarded, literary night seclusion of Uncle Bond, on the upper floor of the silent, darkened house, and had compelled the little man to leave his latest business girl heroine, in the middle of the next instalment of his new serial, although that instalment was, as usual, already overdue, and come downstairs, urbane and chuckling, his round, double-chinned, and spectacled face wreathed in smiles, to entertain an unknown, and youthful stranger, as if his midnight intrusion was the most natural thing in the world.

It was Judith, familiar with the way that they have in the Navy, who had understood, from the first, the vital necessity of his rejoining his ship in time. It was Judith who had routed out time-tables, and looked up trains, while he and Uncle Bond had smoked and discussed the situation at large, and had discovered that he still might be able to catch the Scottish Mail, at some railway junction in the Midlands, of which he had never heard.

It was Judith who had packed off the at once enthusiastic Uncle Bond to the garage to turn out his own brand new Daimler. It was Judith who had insisted that they must make a hurried, and informal, but wholly delightful picnic meal. It was Judith who had slipped out, while Uncle Bond and he ate and drank, and put his kit, which the careful Jevons had brought from the broken down car to the house for safe custody, into the Daimler. Finally, it was Judith who had given them their marching orders, and their route, and had stood on the verandah, and waved her hand to them, in friendly farewell, when Uncle Bond had started the Daimler, and the huge car had swept down the drive, out into the sleeping countryside.

Of the wild drive that had followed, half way across England, through the wonderful summer night, the King had now, as he had had at the time, only a hazy, confused impression—a hazy, confused impression of Uncle Bond, at his side, crouched over the steering wheel of the huge Daimler, driving with a reckless audacity more suited to the commander of a destroyer, or of a submarine, than to a mere retailer of grotesquely improbable tales, of Uncle Bond talking incessantly as he drove, and chuckling delightedly, as he gave a free rein to the fantastic flights of his characteristically extravagant humour.

Where, and when, he had caught the night mail, the King had still no clear idea. A blurred vision of Uncle Bond, racing at his side, down a long, dimly lit railway platform, and throwing his last portmanteau in, after him, through the window of the already moving train, was all that remained with him, of the scene at the station.

And then the train had thundered on, through the sleeping countryside, and he had been alone, at last, in the darkness, in the darkness in which, for hours, he had seen only Judith's beautiful, vivid face, while the train had thundered in his ears, only Judith's name—

By this time, the powerfully engined car had run clear of the outer suburban tramway track, and was rushing through the semi-rural area of market gardens, and scattered villas, where the town first meets, and mingles with, the country, on the north side of London. Coronation illuminations had now been left far behind. Soon even the last of the long chain of lamps provided by the public lighting system was passed. It was by the light thrown on to the road, by the glaring headlights on the throbbing car, and by the softer light of the moon, that the King had now to do his driving—

From the first he had known that Judith, and Uncle Bond, could never be as other people to him. It was this knowledge which had warned him not to betray his real identity. From the first, it had seemed of vital importance to him, that no shadow of his Royal rank should be allowed to mar the delightful spontaneity of his intercourse with these charming, unconventional people, who, looking upon him as merely a young, naval officer in trouble, had at once placed all their resources at his disposal, as if he had been an old and intimate friend. It was this knowledge which had prompted him, when he came to telegraph to Uncle Bond, to report his successful rejoining of his ship, to sign the telegram with his favourite incognito name, Alfred York. That he should have been in a position to telegraph to Uncle Bond was only one of the many lesser miracles of that wholly miraculous night. At some point in their wild drive, Uncle Bond had slipped his visiting card into his hand, and had contrived to make him understand, in spite of his dreamlike abstraction, that, while he was known to his admiring public as "Cynthia St. Claire," the notorious serial writer, he was known to his friends as plain James Bond, and that he, and his niece Judith, would be glad to hear that he had escaped a court-martial.

Looking back at it all, now, with the wonder that never failed him when he thought of Judith, it seemed to the King that the miracles of that first memorable night, twelve months ago, had merely been the prelude to a whole sequence of other, and far greater, miracles. When leave came his way once again, it had seemed only natural to him that he should run out to see Judith and Uncle Bond, to thank them for their kindness which had included the salving, and the temporary storing of the derelict car. But that Judith and Uncle Bond should have welcomed him so warmly, and pressed him to repeat his visit, whenever he happened to be passing through town, that had been—a miracle! Again, it was only natural that he should have taken advantage of their invitation, and that he should have fallen into the habit of running out to see them, whenever he could snatch a few brief hours from the exacting demands of his semi-official life. But that Judith, and Uncle Bond, should have thrown open their house to him, so soon, without question, and made their home, his home, that had been—a miracle! That he should have been able to keep his frequent visits to, and his increasing intimacy with, Judith and Uncle Bond a secret, for nearly twelve months, was a miracle. That in all that time, Judith and Uncle Bond should never have suspected his real identity, never penetrated his incognito, was a greater miracle. But that his friendship with Judith should have remained unspoilt, innocent, that was the greatest miracle of all.

It was Judith who had wrought this last, greatest miracle of all. It was Judith who had made their friendship what it was. Somehow, from the first, she seemed to have been able to shut out, or, at the worst, to ward off, from their intimacy, all dangerous provocations. It was as if she had drawn a white line round herself, even in her thoughts, past which neither he, nor she, could enter. Uncle Bond, most wise and tactful of hosts, had helped. And the Imps, Judith's boys, had helped too.

Somehow, Judith and the Imps, Button, so called because of his button mouth, and Bill, cherubic and chubby, had always been inseparably associated in his mind. Almost from the first, he must have known that Judith, young as she was, was a widow. But it was only lately that he had learnt that her husband had been a sailor like himself, a sailor who had served with distinction, and lost his life, in the Pacific War, the war which he had missed himself, to his own everlasting regret, by a few bare weeks of juniority—

By this time, the throbbing car was sweeping down the opening stretch of the Great North Road, out into the real country. More as a matter of custom, than of conscious thought, the King slowed down the car. It had become his habit on these occasions, that he should slacken his speed, when he had at last successfully escaped from the town, so that he could attune his mind to his surroundings, and savour to the full his eager anticipation of Judith's joyous welcome.

Suddenly, the ghostly, white painted figure of a signpost, for which he always kept an eye open, flashed into his view, on the left of the road.

Once, on a winter evening of fog-thickened darkness, when he had been driving out to see Judith, as he was driving now, the King had grown uncertain of his route. Coming to this signpost, he had been glad to halt, to verify his position. Clambering up the post, with the ready agility of the sailor, he had struck a match, to discover that the signpost had been used, by some unknown humorist, to perpetrate a jest, with which he had found himself in instant, serious, and wholehearted sympathy. The ordinary place names had been obliterated on the signpost fingers. In lieu of them had been painted, in rude, black letters, on the finger pointing to London, "To Hades," and, on the opposite finger, pointing north, out into the open country, "To Paradise."

The King headed the car now "To Paradise," with an uplifting of the heart, which never failed him, on this portion of the road.

A little later, he became aware that he was passing the site of his former breakdown, the breakdown which had first led him, a year ago, to Judith.

Soon the familiar turning of the narrow, tree shadowed lane, on the left of the road, came into view. Swinging the car into the lane, the King, once again, slackened his speed. He drove now with special care. It had become part of a charming game, that he and Judith played, that he should try to drive down the lane, and up to the house, without her hearing his approach. Somehow, he hardly ever won. Somehow, Judith was always on the alert, always expecting him.

But tonight, it almost seemed, in view of the unusual lateness of his arrival, as if he might score one of his rare successes. The car ran smoothly, and all but silently, down the narrow lane. At the bottom, at the house, the carriage gate, as usual, stood wide open. In the moonlit drive, the rhododendron bushes and the laburnum trees were in full blossom, just as they had been on that memorable first night, a year ago. The King drove straight up the drive, and round the side of the silent, darkened house, to the garage beyond. The garage door, like the carriage gate, stood wide open. Here, in Paradise, apparently, there was no need to guard against motor thieves.

The King turned the car, and backed it into the garage, beside Uncle Bond's huge Daimler. The silence which followed his shutting off of the engine, was profound, the essential night silence of the country. Flinging off his thick, leather motor coat, his hat, and his goggles, he tossed them, one after the other, into the car. Then he left the garage, and moved quickly back round the side of the house, treading, whenever possible, on the grassy borders of the garden flower beds, lest the sound of his footsteps should reach Judith, and so warn her of his approach.

n a bush, close up to the house, a nightingale was in full song. Further away, from one of the trees beyond the shadowy garden lawn, another nightingale replied. It was as if the two birds were singing against each other for mastery, pouring out, in a wild, throbbing ecstasy, the one after the other, twin cascades of lovely, liquid, matchless notes.

She rose to her feet, to receive him, as he approached, and so stood, tall and slender, just as she had stood on that first, memorable night, a year ago, framed in the ghostly white blossoms of the clematis creeper, which covered the verandah pillars and rail. She was wearing an evening gown of some material in white satin which had a glossy sheen that shone almost as brightly as the moonlight against the dark background of the silent house. She was bareheaded, and the light, night breeze had ruffled one or two tresses of her luxuriant jet black hair. Her beautiful, vivid face was flushed. Her deep, dark, mysterious eyes were aglow. Her lips were parted in a little smile of mingled humour and triumph.

"I am not my own master. I have been—very busy. They have given me—promotion!"

"I know! I would not have it otherwise, even if I could," Judith murmured. "I am glad, and proud, that you have been very busy; that they have given you—promotion; that you serve—the King! And, tonight, you are wearing his colours?"

As she spoke, she put out her hand, and deftly rearranged the long ribbons of the red, white, and blue rosette, which the audacious Doris had pinned to his coat, earlier in the night.

"And, tonight, I am wearing his colours," the King replied. "When the storm, that they say is coming, really breaks, the King will need all his friends."

With a quick, abrupt movement, which seemed to indicate a sudden change of mood, Judith laid her hands on his shoulders, and turned him a little to the right, so that the moonlight fell full upon his face.

"Yes. You have changed. Your—promotion—has made a difference," she murmured. "You speak gravely. You look older. You are more serious. And there are little lines, and wrinkles, and a frown there, that was never there before."

The light pressure of Judith's hands on his shoulders, and the sudden acute sense of her nearness which it brought him, disturbed him strangely.

This was a mistake. This was dangerous. And it was unlike Judith. It was not Judith's way.

"Come and see the Imps," she said, "I was just going in, to look at them, when you arrived."

Light of foot, and slender, and tall, she moved off then, on tiptoe, without waiting for him, along the shadowy verandah, towards the open window-door of the night nursery near by.

Conscious of a relief, of which he was somehow ashamed, the King followed her, obediently, on tiptoe in turn.

In the night nursery, the nightlight, which protected Button and Bill from the evil machinations of ghosts and goblins, was burning dimly, in its saucer, on the mantelpiece, but a shaft of bright moonlight revealed the two cots, at the far end of the room, in which the children lay, fast asleep, side by side. Judith was already bending over the foot of the cots, when the King entered the room. She looked round at him, finger on lip, as he approached. Button, flushed and rosy, stirred in his sleep, and flung one small arm out of bed, across the snow-white counterpane. Bill, cherubic and chubby, heroically lying on, lest he should suck, his thumb, never moved.

"They have had a wonderful day," Judith whispered. "We ran our flag up, this morning, in honour of the King, and I tried to make them understand about the Coronation. Bill wanted to know if Uncle Alfred would be in the procession! They would do nothing else for the rest of the day, but play at being King. You see, they took their crowns to bed with them."

She pointed to two crowns, crude, homemade, cardboard toys, covered with gilt and silver paper, which lay, one on each pillow, beside the sleeping children.

A strange thrill, a chill of presentiment, a sense of some impending crisis, which, it seemed, he was powerless to prevent, which he must make no attempt to prevent, ran through the King. He shivered. Then he leant over the cots, and, very carefully, lest he should wake him, picked up the crown which lay on Button's pillow.

Inevitably this toy cardboard crown reminded the King of that other Crown, from which, even here in Paradise, it seemed, he could not escape, that other Crown which had been placed on his head at the climax of the long and exhausting Coronation ceremony, not many hours back. That other Crown had been heavy. This was light. That other Crown had been fashioned by cunning artists in metal, out of the enduring materials judged most precious by man. This crown had been laboriously patched together by the untried fingers of a child, out of the flimsy, worthless materials furnished by a nursery cupboard. And yet, of the two crowns, was the one more valuable, more worth possessing, than the other? Both were symbols. That other Crown was the symbol of a heavy burden, of a great responsibility. This toy crown was the symbol of a child's fertile imagination, and happy play. Both were pageantry. The one was the pageantry of a lifetime's isolation, and labour. The other was the pageantry of a child's happy play, for a single summer day.

The irony of the contrast, the irony of his own position, gripped the King, with a thrill of something akin to physical pain.

With the absurd, toy cardboard crown still in his hand, he turned, and looked at Judith.

A dimly realized, instinctive rather than conscious, desire for sympathy prompted his look.

It was not what she did. It was not what she said. She did nothing. She said nothing. And yet, in one of those strange flashes of intuition, which come, at times, to the least sensitive of men, the King was aware that Judith was not herself; that the accord which had hitherto always existed between them was broken; and that he and she had suddenly become—antagonistic.

Judith stood with her hands resting lightly on the brass rail at the foot of Button's cot. Outwardly her attitude was wholly passive. None the less, as he gazed at her, the King's intuitive conviction of their new antagonism deepened.

A wonderful look. A look which amazed, and dumbfounded the King. A look, not of antagonism, as he had anticipated, but, welling up from the depths of her dark, mysterious eyes, a look which spoke, unmistakably, of a woman's tenderness, sympathy, surrender, love.

"If you will go out on to the verandah, Alfred, I will join you there, in a minute or two," she said.

Mechanically, the King replaced the absurd toy cardboard crown, which he was still holding in his hand, on Button's pillow. Then, dazed, and like a man in a dream, he swung slowly round on his heel, and passed back, through the room, out to the verandah again.

The nightingales were still singing in the garden. The air was heavy with the rich scent of some night-blossoming stock, set in one of the flowerbeds immediately below the verandah rail. The moon was afloat in a little sea of luminous, billowy, drifting clouds.

The King sat down in one of the large, wicker work chairs, which always stood on the verandah.

It was for rest, and quiet, and peace, that he had run out to see Judith, and between them, all in a moment, they had blundered, together, into the thick of an emotional crisis.

Where was the white line Judith had always drawn round herself? Where was the barrier of physical reserve she had always maintained inviolable between them? From the first moment of his arrival, he realized now, in some odd way, almost in spite of herself as it were, she had been—alluring!

No. That was unfair, unjust. Judith was not to blame. Judith did not know—how could she know?—the peculiar difficulties, the inexorable limitations, imposed upon him by his Royal rank. She did not know—how could she know?—that friendship was all he could accept from, all he could offer, to, any woman. To Judith, he was merely a young naval officer, whose frequent visits, whose unmistakable delight in her society, could have only one meaning.

He alone was to blame. By his own act, by his own deliberate concealment of his real identity, he had made this crisis inevitable from the first.

What attitude was he to adopt towards Judith now? Could he ignore what had happened? Could he hope that Judith would allow him to ignore what had happened? Or had the time come when he must reveal his real identity to Judith at last? Would she believe him? If she believed him, would she be able to forgive his deception? And, even if she forgave him, would not the shadow thrown by his Royal rank irretrievably injure his intimacy with her, with the Imps, and with Uncle Bond? All the spontaneity, the ease, and the naturalness of their relationship would be at an end.

Judith and Uncle Bond, were the only people he had ever known who had received him, who had accepted him, for what he was himself, the man who remained when all the adventitious trappings of Royalty had been discarded. Judith and Uncle Bond, were the only people he ever met, who treated him as an equal. As an equal? Judith, and Uncle Bond, quite rightly, often treated him as their inferior, their inferior in knowledge, in experience, in wisdom.

The King leant back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He was suddenly very weary. The reaction following all that he had been through the last twenty-four hours was heavy upon him. Difficult and dangerous moments, he realized, lay immediately in front of him. And he was in no condition to meet either difficulty or danger. What he wanted now was rest—

It was some little time before Judith reappeared on the verandah. When she did reappear she brought with her a tray on which stood decanters, and glasses, and biscuits, and fruit. A picnic meal, like the one which he had enjoyed on that first memorable night twelve months ago, had become, whenever possible, a feature of the ordinary routine of the King's visits.

"I am sorry, Alfred," she said. "I blame myself. It was my fault. It ought not to have happened, tonight, of all nights. You were absolutely worn out, already, weren't you? I might, I ought to, have remembered that. I want you to forget all about it, if you can. Now, how long can you stay?"

"I shall have to leave at seven o'clock in the morning, as usual. I must be back in town by eight o'clock at the latest," he said.

"Then you must have a drink, and something to eat, at once," Judith, the old Judith, announced taking absolute command of him again, from that moment, as was her wont. "We'll stay out here, and listen to the nightingales, for half an hour, if you like. I am glad they are singing for you, tonight. And then, and then you will go straight to bed."

Drawing another chair up to the table, as she spoke, she sat down. Then she proceeded to wait upon him with the easy, unembarrassed grace which gave such an intimate charm to all her hospitality.

"I am too tired to smoke. I am almost too tired to drink, I think," the King murmured.

"What you want is sleep, Alfred," she said. "Drink this! It will do you good. Don't bother to talk. I'll do the talking."

The King took the glass which Judith held out to him, and drank, as he was told.

He had reached a point, he was suddenly conscious now, not far removed from complete exhaustion.

"You will see Uncle Bond, in the morning, of course," she remarked. "You will do him good. He is in rather a bad way, just at present, poor old dear. The new serial seems to be giving him a lot of trouble. 'Cynthia St. Claire' isn't functioning properly, at the moment. He's locked himself up, for several nights now, without any result. He says it doesn't seem to matter how many candles he lights. 'Cynthia' still eludes him. It really is a sort of Jekyll and Hyde business with him, you know. If he is to do any work, he has to be 'Cynthia St. Claire,' and not James Bond. It is plain James Bond we prefer, of course. But it is 'Cynthia' who makes all the money, you know.

"The worst of it is, in spite of what Uncle Bond says, I am afraid it isn't all 'Cynthia's' fault this time. He's been running up to town, and knocking about the clubs, a good deal lately. That is nearly always a sign that he is trying to dodge 'Cynthia.' It is almost as if he had got something on his mind. Seeing you will do him good. He always gets what he calls a flow on, when you have been over. He wants it badly now. The new story is three instalments behind the time-table already. Part of his trouble, I think, is that he is working on a plain heroine. He does them alternately, you know. One Plain. The next Ringlets. This one, I understand, is very plain. He misses the chance, I believe, of filling in with purple passages of personal description. You have read some of Uncle Bond's stuff, haven't you? Officially, I am not allowed to. Unofficially, of course, I read every word of it I can get hold of. It's wonderful how he keeps it up, isn't it? And, every now and then, in spite of 'Cynthia,' he slips in something, without knowing it, which only James Bond could have written. All sorts of unexpected people read him, you know. He says it is the name, and not the stuff, that does the trick. I think that it is the stuff. People like romance. Uncle Bond gives it to them."

At that moment, the sleep, of which the King stood in such dire need, long overdue as it was, touched his eyelids.

Judith shot out her arm, and skilfully retrieved the half empty glass, which all but fell from his hand.

A little later, when he awoke with a start, conscious of the strange refreshment which even a moment's sleep brings, he found that Judith's hand was in his.

"It has been a wonderful summer," Judith murmured. "If the sun did not shine again, for months, we should have no right to complain. First the lilac, and the chestnuts, and the hawthorn; then the laburnum and the rhododendrons; and now the wild roses are beginning to show in the hedges. The skylarks singing at dawn; the cuckoo calling all day; the thrushes and the blackbirds whistling in the hot afternoon; and the nightingales, singing at night, as they are singing now! The bright sun in the morning, the blue sky, and the green of the trees. The haymakers at work in the fields. The whir of the haycutting machine. The Imps tumbling over each other in the hay, and calling to me. Diana's foal in the paddock, all long legs, and short tail. The wren's nest in the garden, with six little wrens in it for Jenny Wren to feed. The afternoon sunlight on the trees; Uncle Bond in the garden, chuckling over his roses; the sunset; the young rabbits, with their white bob-tails, scuttling in and out of the hedges; a patter of rain on the leaves; the breeze in the trees; the twilight; the cool of the evening; and then the blue of the night sky, the stars, and the golden moon, in a bed of billowy, drifting clouds. The scent of the hayfields, the scent of the flowers; and the nightingales singing, in the garden, as they are singing now!

"The nightingales are singing about it all. Can you hear what they say? I have been trying to put the nightingales' song into words. Listen! Those long, liquid notes—"

The night air was heavy with the scent of the night-blossoming stock, in the flowerbed, immediately below the verandah rail. The nightingales sang as if at the climax of their rivalry for mastery. A huge owl lumbered, rather than flew, across the shadowy garden.

For a moment, it seemed to the King, as if the verandah, the house, the garden, and even the night sky, stood away from them, receded, and that he and Judith were alone, together, in infinite space.

"Bed!" she said, speaking with the note of smiling, kindly discipline, with which she ruled the Imps, and, when she chose, even Uncle Bond and himself. "You will be able to sleep now, Alfred."

The King rose obediently to his feet to find, with a certain dull, dazed surprise, that he was stiff and sore, and hardly able to stand.

Dazed as he was, he did not fail to see the look of sharp anxiety which shone, for a moment, in Judith's eyes.

"Lean on me, old man!" she exclaimed. "You are done up. I'll see you to your room. They have been working you too hard. Do they never think of—the man—in your Service?"

She put out her arm, as she spoke, and slipped it skilfully round his shoulders.

And so, glad of Judith's support, and only restfully conscious of her nearness now, the King moved off slowly along the verandah towards the room, at the far end of the silent, darkened house, which had come to be regarded as his room, and, as such, was strictly reserved, "in perpetuity," for his use alone.

"Here you are!" Judith announced, at last, halting at the open window door of the room. "You will be able to manage by yourself now, won't you? You must sleep now, Alfred. Dreamless sleep! Every minute of it! The Imps will call you, as usual, in the morning. Good-night."

A minute or two later, the King found himself alone, inside the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, with an urgent desire for sleep rising within him.

The fresh, fragrant night air blew softly into the room, through the open window door, beyond which he could see, as he sat on the edge of the bed, the gently swaying branches of the garden trees, silhouetted against the dark blue background of the moonlit sky.

The room itself invited rest, induced sleep. Plainly, although comfortably furnished, and decorated throughout in a soothing tint of grey, the room had a spaciousness, even an emptiness, which was far more to the King's taste, than the ornate fittings of that other bedroom of his in the palace, where sleep so often eluded him. Beyond the absolutely necessary furniture, there was nothing in the room, save the few essential toilet trifles which he kept there. Nothing was ever altered in, nothing was ever moved from, this room, in his absence. It had all become congenial, friendly, familiar.

The King undressed, mechanically, in the moonlight, and put on the sleeping suit which lay ready to his hand, on the bed, at his side.

His last thought was one of gratitude to, and renewed confidence in, Judith. How she had humoured, how she had managed him, coaxing and cajoling him, as if he had been a sick child, along the shadowy road to sleep. The emotional crisis which had arisen so inexplicably between them had, as inexplicably spent its force harmlessly. Their friendship was unimpaired. Nothing was altered between them. Nothing was to be altered. Judith had emphasized that. The Imps were to wake him, in the morning, as usual. He was to see Uncle Bond. All was to be as it had always been. He was glad. He had no wish for, he shrank instinctively from the thought of, any changes, here, in Paradise.

He slept, at once, so soundly, that he never stirred, when, in a little while, Judith slipped noiselessly into the room. Crossing to the bed, she stood, for a moment or two, looking down at him, with all the unfathomable tenderness in her dark, mysterious eyes, which she had asked him to forget, which she had made him forget.

t was to the sound of the patter of bare feet, on the polished floor of his bedroom, followed by suppressed gurgles of joyous laughter, that the King awoke, in the morning. Bright sunshine was streaming into the room, through the still open window door. Button and Bill, their faces rosy with health and sleep, and their hair still tousled, as it had come from their pillows, engagingly droll little figures in their diminutive sleeping suits, stood at his bedside, watching him with shining, mischievous eyes. As he sat up in bed, they flung themselves at him, with triumphant shouts, wriggling and swarming all over him, as they essayed to smother him, under his own bedclothes and pillows.

At the end of two or three hilarious, and vivid moments of mimic fight, the King brought the heavy artillery of his bolster to bear on his enemies, smiting them cunningly in the "safe places" of their wriggling, deliciously fresh little bodies, and so driving them, inch by inch, down to the foot of the bed, where, still laughing and gurgling gloriously, they rolled themselves up, to evade his blows, like a couple of young hedgehogs.

Then the King flung his bolster on to the floor, and, reaching out his arms, took his enemies captive, tucking them, one under each arm, and holding them there, kicking and protesting, but wholly willing prisoners.

Button, at this point, although suspended under the King's left arm, more or less in mid-air, contrived to wriggle his right hand free, and held it out gravely, to be shaken. On the strength of his seven years, Button had lately given up kissing in public, and begun to affect the formal manner of the man of the world, in matters of courtesy, as shrewdly observed in Uncle Bond.

In order to shake Button's hand, the King was compelled to release Bill from his prison, under his right arm. Bill, whose happy fate it was to be still only five, the true golden age, had no man of the world pretensions, no sense of shame in his affections. Breaking ruthlessly into Button's formal greeting, he flung both his chubby arms round the King's neck, pulled his head down to be kissed, and then hugged him, with all the force in his lithe little body, chanting in a voice absurdly like Judith's the while—

"Diana's got a foal, all legs and stumpy tail, and a white star on its face. We're making the hay. There's a wren's nest in the garden. It's past six o'clock, and it's a lovely summer morning, and you've got to get up, Uncle Alfred."

From some dusty pigeonhole in his memory, where it had lain since his own far-away childhood, there floated out into the King's mind, a phrase, a sentence—

It was a phrase, a sentence, which he could trace back to the Bible lessons, which had been as faithfully and remorselessly delivered, on Sunday afternoons, in the Royal nursery, as in any other nursery of the period, when the strict discipline in such matters, derived originally from the now well-nigh forgotten Victorian era, had not been altogether relaxed. It was a phrase, a sentence, which had impressed itself upon his childish imagination, and had, for years, stood between him, and his father, the King. His father had been the Lord's Anointed. As a child he had not dared to put forth his hand to touch him! For years, he had lived in awe, almost in fear, of his own father. Perhaps this was why, even down to the day of his death, the King had always seemed to him to be a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote. Perhaps this was partly why, he himself, now that he was King, was so constantly conscious of his own intolerable isolation.

If Button and Bill, particularly Bill, whose chubby arms were, even now, tightening around him, knew his real identity, knew that he was the King, "the Lord's Anointed," not a fairy tale King, not a King of their own childish play, but the King, in whose procession they had thought Uncle Alfred might have a place, would not they live in awe of him, would not they fear him, would not the present delightful spontaneity, the fearlessness, the frank embraces, of their intercourse with him, be irreparably injured?

Button and Bill must never know, Judith and Uncle Bond must never know, his real identity.

"Good morning, Alfred. The bathroom is yours, and the Imps, if you don't mind having them with you, and letting them have a splash," she called out cheerily. "But no flood in the passage, this morning, mind! Breakfast in half an hour, on the verandah. We shall be by ourselves. Uncle Bond has had another bad night. 'Cynthia' has failed him again. He daren't face eggs and bacon in public, he says. Hurry up, Imps. Big sponge, floating soap, and bath towels, at the double."

"I'd rather be last!" Bill explained, quite unconcerned, lingering to give the King a final hug.

"If I'm last, I shall be able to float 'Ironclad Willie,' and 'Snuffles,' shan't I? They haven't had a swim—for ever so long—poor dears."

'Ironclad Willie,' and 'Snuffles,' were a large china fish, and a small china duck, which Bill sometimes forgot, and sometimes remembered at bath time.

A hilarious, crowded, half hour followed. It was a half hour lit up, for the King, by the blended innocence and mischief which shone in the Imps' eyes, a half hour set to music for him by the Imps' gurgling chuckles, and radiant, childish laughter. First came the bathroom, where the Imps splashed and twisted in the bath, their brown, wriggling little bodies as lithe and supple as those of young eels; where Bill, lost in a huge bath towel, demanded assistance in drying all the back places and corners; where Button solemnly lathered his chin, just as Uncle Alfred lathered his chin; where Bill was, for one terrible moment, in imminent peril of his life, as he grabbed at the case of shining razors. Then came the bedroom again, where odd, queer-shaped little garments had to be turned right side out, and buttons and strings had to be fastened, and tied. Innocency, fearlessness, trust, mischief, and laughter were inextricably mingled in it all, with laughter predominating, the radiant laughter of the happy child, ignorant of evil.

All this was all as it had always been, and, for that reason, it all made a more poignant appeal, than ever before, this morning, to the King.

One glance at Judith, as he approached the breakfast table, assured the King that it was the old Judith with whom he had to deal.

Dressed in white, and as fresh and cool as the morning, Judith was already in her place, at the head of the table, hospitably entrenched behind the coffee pot.

Intimate conversation, with the Imps at the table, was out of the question. An occasional glance, a sympathetic smile, was all that could pass between them. The King was well content to have it so. He was pleasantly conscious that the accord between them, which had been so inexplicably broken, for a time, the night before, was completely restored. Their friendship was unimpaired. Nothing else mattered. Looking at Judith, cool, competent, and self-contained, as she was, he found himself almost doubting the actuality of the emotional crisis of the night before. Had that scene in the night nursery been a dream? A mere figment of his own fevered, disordered imagination?

The birds whistled, and called cheerily from the sunlit greenness of the garden.

This, it seemed to the King, was his only real life. That other life of his in the palace, guarded, night and day, by the soldiery, and the police, was the illusion, was the dream.

But the meal was, inevitably, a hurried one, and it ended, abruptly, and all too soon, when Judith rose suddenly to her feet, and drove the Imps before her, along the verandah, to say good morning to Diana's foal in the paddock.

It had become an understood thing, part of the usual routine, that the King should never say good-bye.

Left alone, the King leant back in his chair, and filled, and lit, his pipe. He always lingered for awhile, beside the disordered breakfast table, on these occasions, so that he could savour to the full, the peace, the quietness, and the beauty of his surroundings. He had learnt to store up such impressions in his memory, so that he could invoke them, for his own encouragement, in his darker hours. And, it was more than probable, that if he waited a few minutes, Uncle Bond would come out to speak to him. A sentence or two, from Judith's talk the night before, recurred to him now. Uncle Bond, really worried, was a new, and strange, phenomenon. If he could cheer the little man up, as Judith had suggested, he would be glad. He owed a great deal to Uncle Bond.

A thrush, perched at the top of a tall fir tree, near the house, whistled blithely.

At last, the King glanced reluctantly at his watch. It was seven o'clock. It was time for him to go. He must be back in the palace by eight o'clock, at the latest. He stood up. Then, conscious of a keen sense of disappointment at not seeing Uncle Bond, over and above the depression which he always felt when the moment came for him to leave Paradise, he stepped down off the verandah, and moved slowly round the side of the house, through the sunlit garden, towards the garage.

He had no hope of seeing Judith, or even the Imps, again. They would stay in the paddock, or in the hayfields beyond, until he had driven away, clear of the house, and the garden.

The little man had run the King's car, out of the garage, into the drive. Already seated himself in the car, he looked up, as the King approached, with a mischievous twinkle in his spectacled eyes, and a droll smile puckering his round, double-chinned, clean-shaven face.

"Good morning, my boy, I'm going to see you along the main road, for a mile or two," he announced. "I shall have to walk back. That will be good for me. Judith says I'm getting fat! Thought I was cutting you, didn't you? I thought that I'd stage a little surprise for you. Astonishment is good for the young. It is the only means we old fogies have left, nowadays, of keeping you youngsters properly humble. The Imps have taught me that! Jump in! I want to talk to you."

"I was feeling absurdly disappointed, because I hadn't seen you, Uncle Bond," he confessed.

Putting on his thick leather motor coat, and adjusting his goggles, which the little man had placed in readiness for him, on the vacant seat at the steering wheel, the King got into the car, and started the engine.

"The first mile in silence!" Uncle Bond directed. "If possible I have got to assume an unaccustomed air of gravity. And drive slowly. The subtlety of that suggestion probably escapes you. A bar or two of slow music and—enter emotion! When I chuckle again, you can change your gear."

Away from the house, down the short, sunlit drive, and out into, and up, the narrow tree-shadowed lane beyond, the King drove slowly, and in silence, as the little man had directed.

All but buried under the big, black sombrero-like felt hat, which it was his whim to affect, in grotesque contrast with the light, loosely cut shooting clothes which were his habitual wear, Uncle Bond sat low down in his seat in the car, on the King's left. In spite of his invocation of gravity, gravity remained far from him. Nothing could altogether efface the mischievous twinkle which lurked in his spectacled eyes, or blot out, for long, the mocking smile which puckered his mobile lips. But the King knew Uncle Bond well enough to realize that he was unusually thoughtful. What was it Judith had said? It was almost as if Uncle Bond had something on his mind. Judith was right. The little man, clearly, at any rate, had something that he wanted to say.

It was not until the car had swung out of the lane, and headed for London, was sweeping down the broad, and, at this comparatively early hour of the morning, empty, Great North Road, that Uncle Bond spoke.

"We have not seen very much of you, lately, my boy," he remarked. "You have been busy, no doubt. In the Service, you young men are not your own masters, of course. And Judith tells me that they have even made the mistake of giving you—promotion. I have been wondering if that—promotion—is likely to make your visits to us more difficult, and so rarer? The increasing responsibility, the increasing demands on your energy, and on your time, which your—promotion—has, no doubt, brought with it, will, perhaps, interfere with your visits to us? Perhaps you will have to discontinue your visits to us, altogether, for a time?"

Although his own eyes were, of necessity, fixed on the stretch of the broad, empty, sunlit road, immediately in front of the throbbing car, the King was uncomfortably aware that Uncle Bond was watching him narrowly as he spoke. This, then, was the something that the little man had on his mind. Suspicion? Doubt? Doubt of him? Doubt of his loyalty to his friends? In spite of the little man's suave manner, and carefully chosen phrases, it seemed to the King that the inference was unmistakable. It was an astonishing inference to come from Uncle Bond. Discontinue his visits? This, when he had just been congratulating himself on the unchanged nature of his intimacy with Judith, and with the Imps, so unexpectedly, and seriously, threatened, the night before, but so thoroughly and happily, re-established, that morning. Had he not made up his mind that all was to be as it had always been? But Uncle Bond knew nothing about that, of course.

"My—promotion—will not interfere with my visits to you, and to Judith, Uncle Bond," he declared.

"Absolutely certain," the King exclaimed, and in spite of his efforts to suppress it, a note of rising irritation sounded in his voice.

"Change your gear, my boy. I chuckled! Change your gear," he crowed. "A mile or two of real speed will do neither you nor me, any harm, now. Did I not say—'Enter emotion!' But I did not say that it would be my emotion, did I? You are the hero of this piece. It is for you the slow music has to be played. I am only the knockabout comedian, useful for filling in the drop scenes. Or am I the heavy father? 'Pon my soul, when I come to think of it, it seems to me that I am destined to double the two parts."

"I like your answer, my boy. It is the answer I expected you to make. But I could not be sure. Human nature being the unaccountable thing that it is, I could not be sure. And now, I have another question to ask you. And I am the heavy father now. If only I could be grave! If your visits to us are to continue, don't you think it will be, perhaps, as well for you to be a little more careful about—the conventions, shall I say? You arrived very late, last night. Judith was alone to receive you. Such circumstances are liable to be misunderstood, don't you think? And, although we are all apt to overlook the fact, we are all—human. A wise man avoids, for his own sake, and for the sake of others—certain provocations. 'The prudent man forseeth the evil'—but the quotation would be lost on you. A text for my sermon!"

The King had, automatically, let out the car, in response to Uncle Bond's direction. He applied all his brakes, and slowed the car down again now, on his own behalf. He wanted to be able to breathe, to think.

This was the first time Uncle Bond had ever spoken to him in this way. The wonder, of course, was that he had never spoken to him, in this way, before. Did the little man know what had happened the night before? No. That was impossible. Judith would not, Judith could not, have disclosed what had happened to him. It must be his own unerring instinct, his own sure knowledge of human nature, which had prompted the little man to deliver this sermon. This sermon? This generous, kindly, tactful, whimsical reproof. How well deserved the reproof was, the events of the night before had shown.

"I am sorry, Uncle Bond. I have been very thoughtless," he said. "It will not happen again."

"Judith and I appreciate your visits, my boy," Uncle Bond continued. "It would be a matter of very great regret to—both of us—if we found that we had—to limit, in any way—the hospitality, which we have been so glad to offer you. We wish, we both wish, to maintain our present, pleasant relationship, unchanged. That is your wish, too, I think?"

The King let out the car once again. His emotions, his thoughts required, now, the relief of speed.

"Somehow, I can never bear to think of any change, where you, and Judith, and the Imps are concerned, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed. "Somehow, I can never think of you, except all together, in the surroundings you have made your own. And that is strange, you know! We are all, as you say—human. Judith—Judith is the superior of every woman I have ever met. Her place is, her place ought to be, by right, at the head of the procession. And yet, somehow, I can never see her there!"

"At the head of the procession?" he murmured. "Is that so enviable a position, my boy? Ask the man, ask the men, you find there!"

The King winced. It was only one of the chance flashes of cynicism, with which Uncle Bond salted his talk, of course. But how true, and apposite, to his own position, and experience, the remark was!

"And, if the head of the procession is no enviable place for a man, what would it be for a woman, for a woman with a heart?" Uncle Bond proceeded. "'Pon my soul, I am talking pure 'Cynthia'!" he exclaimed. "'Cynthia' has begun to function, at last! That last sentence was in the lazy minx's best style. Judith will have told you that 'Cynthia' has been giving me a lot of trouble lately? You have lured her back, my boy. I thank you! You always attract her. She has a weakness for handsome young men. Her heroes are always Apollos."

"My boy, I will offer you another piece of advice," he remarked. "It is a mistake I do not often make." His habits of speech were too much for him. Even now, when he was patently in earnest, the little man could not be grave. "My advice is this—never attempt to put, never think, even in your own mind, of putting Judith, at the head of any procession. It is not Judith's place. Her place is in the background, the best place, the place that the best women always choose, in life. 'Cynthia' again! Pure 'Cynthia'! Welcome, you minx! If you ever attempt to take Judith out of the background, out of the background which she has chosen for herself, you will encounter inevitable disappointment, and cause yourself, and so her, pain. And you will spoil the—friendship—between you and Judith, which I have found so much—pleasure in watching. That is not 'Cynthia.' It is myself, plain James Bond. My advice, you see, like everybody else's, is, by no means, disinterested."

The King smiled at the little man, almost in spite of himself. This was the true Uncle Bond. This was Uncle Bond's way.

"I wonder if you are right, Uncle Bond? I am afraid, my own feeling suggests, that you are," he murmured. "And yet, somehow, I am not sure—"

Unconsciously, he slowed down the car, yet once again, as he spoke. The little man had stirred thoughts in him which required deliberate, and careful, expression.

"I have not thought very much about the procession, myself, until just lately," he said. "But it seems to me, you know, that we none of us, men and women alike, have very much to do with our place in the files. I have never believed in chance. And I am not, I think, a fatalist. And yet, you know, it seems to me that the procession catches us up, and sweeps us along, at the head or the tail, as the case may be, whether we will or no. A man may be caught up, suddenly, into the procession, and swept along with it, into some position, which he never expected to fill, which he would rather not fill, but from which he seems to have no chance of escape. Has he any chance of escape? It is the procession that controls us, I think, not we who control the procession. What do you think? Can a man escape? Can any of us ever really choose our place in the files?"

"Judith told me that they had been overworking you, my boy. Judith, as usual, was right," he remarked. "You appear to me to be in grave danger of becoming most satisfactorily morbid. Liver! Almost certainly liver! But about this procession of yours. 'Pon my soul, the figure, the fancy, is not unworthy of 'Cynthia' herself. It would make a useful purple passage. Not for serial publication, of course. We cut them out there. But we put them in again, when the time comes for the stuff to go into book form. The procession of life! Yes. The idea is quite sufficiently threadbare. The one essential, for the successful production of money-making fiction is, of course, to be threadbare. Give the public what they have had before! But you are interested in the procession, not in the literary market. Can a man, or a woman, choose their place in the files? I say 'yes!'

"Once or twice, in the life of every man and woman, I believe, come moments, when they must choose their place in the files, moments when they have to decide whether they will stay where they are, whether they will fight to hold the place they have, whether they will shoulder their way forward, or whether they will fall out, to one side, or to the rear. All my life, I have been watching the procession, my boy. That is why I have grown so fat! It is many years, now, since I decided to step out of the procession, to one side, and I have been watching it sweep past, ever since. A brave show! But we have been talking glibly of the head and the tail of the procession. Where are they? I have never found them. I have never seen them. All I have ever seen is that the procession is there, and that it moves. But, no doubt, the band is playing—somewhere—

"But you are young, and they have just given you—promotion! You are in the procession, sweeping through the market-place, with all the flags flying, and the band, as I say, playing—somewhere. But I, and Judith, we are a little to one side, in the background, watching you, in the procession, from one of the windows of the quiet, old-fashioned inn, at the corner of the market-place, the quiet, old-fashioned inn on the signboard of which is written, in letters of gold, 'Content.' Your instinct will probably, and very properly, prompt you to fight for your place in the files, when the other fellows tread too hard on your heels. But, whether you fight for your place or not, whether you come out at the head or the tail of the procession, wherever the head and tail may be, whether you step to one side, or fall out altogether, whatever happens to you, my boy, Judith and I will always be glad to welcome you to the inn at the corner, and give you a seat at our window. You will remember that?

"And what do you think of that, as a purple passage, my boy? 'Pon my soul, it seems to me, now, that 'Cynthia' is functioning, she is in quite her best vein. I must get back home with her, at once. Pull up on this side of the signpost. I must not advance a foot into Hades, this morning, or I shall lose touch with the minx. She ought to be good for five or six thousand words today. And they are badly needed. The new story is three instalments behind the time-table already. It is the villain of the new piece, who is giving us trouble. Even 'Cynthia,' herself, is tired of him, I believe. He is a sallow person, with a pair of black, bushy eyebrows, which run up and down his forehead, with a regularity which is depressing. Two or three times, in each instalment, the confounded things go up and down, like sky-rockets. He lives in a mysterious house, in one of the mean streets, in the new artistic quarter, in Brixton. The house is full of Eastern furniture, and glamour. That is threadbare enough, isn't it? And I am using back numbers of 'Punch,' for humour."

Once again, the King let out the car. He knew Uncle Bond well enough to recognize that the little man was talking extravagantly now, to hide the note of sincere personal feeling, which had sounded unmistakably in his talk of the procession, although he had been so careful to attribute it all to 'Cynthia.' It was on occasions such as this, after one of his sudden flashes of sincerity, that Uncle Bond became most outrageously flippant. Nothing but burlesque humour, and grotesque, extravagant nonsense was to be expected from him now.

At the moment, flippancy jarred on the King. His attention had been riveted by the little man's vivid, figurative talk of the procession, so peculiarly apposite, as it was, to his own position, and the assurance of unchanging friendship, with which it had ended, had moved, and humbled him. He did not deserve, in view of his concealment of his real identity, he had no right to accept, such friendship.

Now, as the throbbing car leapt forward, and swept along the broad, sunlit road at its highest speed, the little man became suddenly silent. A new mood of abstraction seemed to fall upon him. It was almost as if he had still something on his mind, as if there was still something which he wanted to say.

Soon the Paradise-Hades signpost, to which the King himself had introduced the little man, flashed into view, on the right of the road.

Uncle Bond threw off his unusual abstraction, in a moment, and scrambled, nimbly enough, out of the car.

The little man tested the car door carefully, to make sure that he had fastened it securely behind him.

Then he looked up at the King, with an odd, provocative twinkle in his mischievous, spectacled eyes.

"If I were you, Alfred, I should fight for my place in the procession, if necessary," he remarked. "Fight for your place, if necessary, my boy! After all, you are young, and they have just given you—promotion. I have a shrewd suspicion that you would not be satisfied, for long, by the view from our window, in the quiet, old-fashioned, inn of 'Content.' You would soon want to alter the signboard inscription, I fancy. An occasional glance through the window is all very well. It is restful. It serves its purpose. But a taste for the stir the bustle, the jostling, and the dust and the clamour, in the market-place, is pretty deeply implanted in all of us. To be in the movement! It is, almost, the universal disease. A man, who is a man, a young man, wants to be in the thick of things, in the hurly-burly, in the street below. What is there for him in a window view? Fight for your place, if necessary, my boy! And, if you decide to fight, fight with a good grace, and with all your heart. It is the half-hearted men, it is the half-hearted women, who fail. The best places in the procession—whether they are at the head or the tail, and where the head and the tail are, who knows?—like the best seats at the inn windows, in the background, fall to the men, fall to the women, who know what they want, who know their own mind.

And with that, and with no other leave-taking, Uncle Bond swung round abruptly, and set off, with surprising swiftness, for so small, and so corpulent a man, straight back along the road.

The King glanced at his watch. It was already half past seven. He had a good deal of time to make up. But he could do it. He opened out the car, now, to its fullest extent. The powerful engine responded, at once, to his touch, and the car shot forward—out of Paradise into Hades!

For once the King was unconscious of this transition. He was thinking of the procession, of Uncle Bond, of Judith, and of himself; their seats at the inn window; his place in the files. Must the whole width of the market-place always lie between them? Must it always be only occasionally, and with some risk—the risk he was running now—that he stepped out of the procession, and slipped, secretly, into the quiet "inn of Content," to look through their window, to stand, for a few moments, at their side? They were in the background. He was at the head of the procession. At the head? Who knew, who could say, where the head or the tail was? Was the band playing—somewhere? He had never heard it. Would he tire of the window view—soon? Was he not tired already, of his place in the files?

Fight for his place? Must he fight? A fight was something. The other fellows were treading very hard on his heels. But was his place worth fighting for? Did he want it? He had not chosen it. It had been thrust upon him. The moments of decision, when a man had to choose his place in the files, about which Uncle Bond had spoken so confidently, had never come to him. Moments of decision? What could he, what did he, ever decide? In the very fight for his place, which was impending, he would not be allowed to commit himself. The fight would be fought for him, all around him, and he, the man most concerned, was the one man who could not, who would not be allowed, to take a side. It was all arranged for him. The old Duke of Northborough, the lightning conductor, would take the shock! And the result? Did he know what he wanted? Did he know his own mind? A half-hearted man! What a faculty Uncle Bond had for hitting on a phrase, a sentence, that stuck, that recurred. It described him. A half-hearted King. A half-hearted friend. A half-hearted—lover.

But was it altogether his fault? Was it not his position, his intolerable isolation, his responsibility, which, by a bitter paradox, was without responsibility, that had thrown his whole life out of gear, and paralysed his will? As a sailor, in his own chosen profession, with responsibility, with the command of men, he had held his own, more than held his own, with his peers. He had had his place, an honourable place, amongst men of the same seniority as himself, and the Navy took the best men, the pick of the country. Yes. He knew what he wanted now. A moment of decision. A moment in which he could be himself. A moment in which he could assert himself, assert his own individuality, recklessly, violently, prove that he was not a half-hearted man, not an automaton, not an overdressed popinjay—

At this point, the appearance of a certain amount of traffic on the road, as the car swept into the fringe of the outer suburbs, and the more careful driving which it entailed, broke the thread of the King's thoughts. The inevitable lowering of the speed of the car which followed, served to remind him anew that he still had a good deal of time to make up, thanks to his loitering with Uncle Bond, if he was to be successful in effecting his return to the palace unobserved. His rising anxiety about this now all important matter led him thenceforward to concentrate the whole of his attention on his handling of the car.

n the outer suburbs, milkmen, postmen, and boys delivering newspapers, were moving from door to door, in the quiet streets of villas. The tramcars, and later the buses, which the car caught up, and passed, were crowded with workmen, being carried at "Workmen's Fares." The shop fronts, in the inner suburbs, gay in the early morning sunlight, with their Coronation flags and decorations, were still all shuttered; but a thin trickle of men and women in the streets, moving in the direction of the railway stations, gave promise already of the impending rush of the business crowd. Coronation Day had come, and gone. The public holiday was over. Now there was work toward.

At the far end of Tottenham Court Road, by which broad thoroughfare he approached, as he had escaped from, the town, the King deliberately varied the route which he had followed the night before. Heading the car straight on down Charing Cross Road, through Trafalgar Square, and so into Whitehall, he turned, at last, into Victoria Street. It was by the side streets, in the vicinity of Victoria Station, that he ultimately approached the palace, and ran out into Lower Grosvenor Place. He did this to avoid the neighbourhood of the parks, and possible recognition by early morning riders, on their way to and from Rotten Row.

Lower Grosvenor Place proved, as usual, deserted. In the secluded, shut-in mews, behind the tall houses, no one, as yet, was stirring. In a very few minutes, the King had successfully garaged the car. Then he slipped hurriedly back across Grosvenor Place. The road was happily still empty, and he reached the small, green, wooden door in the palace garden wall, without encountering anything more formidable than a stray black cat. A black cat which shared his taste for night walking. A purring black cat, which rubbed its head against his legs. A black cat for luck!

Sauntering leisurely through the garden, the King reached the palace without meeting any one, on the way. Sometimes, on these occasions, he ran into gardeners, early at work, a policeman, patrolling the walks, or some member of the household staff; but such encounters never caused him any anxiety. Why should not the King take a stroll in the garden, before breakfast? Had he not been known to dive into the garden lake for an early morning swim, and had not the fact been duly recorded in all the newspapers?

He entered the palace by the door through which he had escaped the night before, and so, mounting the private staircase, which led up to his own suite of rooms, regained his dressing room, unchallenged.

The creation of a certain amount of necessary disorder in his bedroom, and a partial undressing, were the work of only a few minutes.

Then he rang his bell, for which, he was well aware, a number of the palace servants would be, already anxiously listening.

It was Smith, as the King had been at some pains to arrange, who answered this, the first summons of the official, Royal day.

"Breakfast in the garden, in half an hour, Smith," the King ordered. "See about that, at once. Then you can come back, and get my bath ready, and lay out the clothes."

Another bath was welcome, and refreshing, after the dust, and the excitement of the motor run. Smith's choice of clothes was a new, grey, lounge suit, of most satisfactory cut, and finish. At the end of the half hour which he had allowed himself, the King left the dressing room, and passed down the private staircase, out into the sunlit garden, with an excellent appetite for his second breakfast.

The breakfast table had been placed on one of the lawns, in the green shade thrown by a magnificent sycamore tree. A couple of gorgeously clad footmen were responsible for the service of the meal but they soon withdrew to a discreet distance. The unpretentious domestic life, traditional for so many years, in the palace, had made it comparatively easy for the King to reduce to a minimum the distasteful ceremony which the presence of servants adds to the simplest meal.

A few personal letters, extracted by some early rising member of his secretarial staff, from the avalanche of correspondence in the Royal post bags, had been placed, in readiness for the King, on the breakfast table. One of these letters bore the Sandringham postmark, and proved to be from his youngest sister, the Princess Elizabeth, who was still, officially, a school girl. It was a charming letter. With a frank and fearless affection, a spontaneous naïveté, that pleased the King, the young Princess wrote to offer him her congratulations on his Coronation, congratulations which, she confessed, she had been too shy to voice in public, the day before. The letter touched the King. He read it through twice, allowing his eggs and bacon, and coffee, to grow cold, while he did so. There was a note of sincere feeling, of genuine affection, of sisterly pride in him, mingled with anxiety for his welfare, in the letter, which afforded a very agreeable contrast to the subservience of the Family in general, which had so jarred upon him, at the state banquet, the night before. This sister of his seemed likely to grow up into a true woman, a loyal and affectionate woman. She reminded him, in some odd way, of Judith.

What would the future bring to this fresh, unspoilt, sister of his? "A woman, a woman with a heart, at the head of the procession." Another of Uncle Bond's phrases! What an insight the little man had into the possibilities of positions, and situations, which he could only have known in imagination, in the imagination which he wasted on the construction of his grotesquely improbable tales! He must do what he could for this fresh, unspoilt sister of his. That would be little enough in all conscience! Meanwhile he could write to her, and thank her for her letter. That was an attention which would please her.

Producing a small, morocco bound, memorandum tablet, which he always carried about with him, in his waistcoat pocket, the King made a note to remind him to write to the Princess, in one of the intervals of his busy official day.

Then he resumed his attack on his eggs and bacon, and coffee. He did not notice that they were cold. This letter of his sister's had turned his thoughts to—the Family!

He was the Head of the Family now. Somehow, he had hardly realized the fact before. In the circumstances, it really behoved him, it would be absolutely necessary for him, to try to get to know something about the various members of the Family. His early distaste for Court life, his absorption in his own chosen profession, his frequent absences at sea, had made him, of course, little better than a stranger to the rest of the Family. And, if they knew little or nothing about him, he knew less than nothing about them. The Prince had been the only member of the Family with whom he had had any real intimacy, since the far off nursery days they had all shared together, the only link between him and the others. And now the Prince was dead.

This fresh, unspoilt sister of his would probably be worth knowing. Any girl, who recalled Judith, must be well worth knowing. And there was Lancaster! Lancaster was now, and was likely to remain, Heir Apparent. And William? William had looked a very bright, and engaging youngster, in his naval cadet's uniform, the day before. The others? The others did not matter. But Lancaster, and William, and Betty, he must get to know. And now, at the outset of their new relationship, he had a favourable opportunity to take steps in the matter, which would not recur. He could let them know that he was their brother, as well as—the King! No doubt, they had their problems, and difficulties, just as he had his. He would do what he could, to make life easy for them. After all, it was quite enough that one member of the Family, at a time, should be condemned to the intolerable isolation, and the dreary, treadmill round of the palace.

Might he not usefully begin, at once, with Lancaster? He could send a message to Lancaster, asking him to join him, at his informal lunch, at the palace, at noon. Lancaster had always seemed, to him, a dull, rather heavy, conventional, commonplace person; but there might be something human in him, after all. Perhaps, at an informal intimate encounter, he might be able to establish some contact with him, and get him to talk a little about himself. That would be interesting, and useful. Yes. Lancaster should provide his first experiment in Family research.

Picking up his memorandum tablet again, from where he had dropped it on the breakfast table, the King made another note, to remind him to send the necessary message to Lancaster during the morning.

The fact that he was not sure whether Lancaster, or even William, would still be in town, emphasized, in his own mind, his ignorance of the Family.

At this point, the gorgeously clad footmen approached the table. One of them removed the used dishes and plates. The other placed a stand of fresh fruit in front of the King.

And, he suddenly realized now, he was beginning to take hold of his job, at last. This decision of his to tackle the Family, to get to know them personally, was his own decision. It was an expression of his own individuality, the exercise of his own will. The thought gave him a little thrill of pride, and pleasure. Perhaps, after all, there was going to be some scope, some freedom, for his own personality, in his place in the procession, more scope, more freedom than he had been inclined to think. His own shoulders, directed by his own brain, might make a difference in the jostling in the market-place. If the opportunity arose, he would put his weight into the scrimmage.

Soothed by tobacco, and cheered by the bright morning sunlight, the King leant back in his chair.

It was another wonderful summer day. Overhead the sky was a luminous, cloudless blue. The sunlight lay golden on the green of the trees, and on the more vivid green of the lawn. The garden flower beds were gay with masses of brilliant hued blossoms. One or two birds whistled pleasantly from the neighbouring trees and bushes. A fat starling strutted about the lawn, digging for worms.

A sense of general well-being stirred in the King, a sense of well-being which surprised him, for a moment, but only for a moment. It was always so, when he had been in Paradise, with Judith. Always he returned to the palace refreshed, and strengthened, with a new zest for, with a new appreciation of, the joy of mere living. Somehow, he must see to it, that his—promotion—did not interfere with his visits to Judith, and to Uncle Bond. He must see to it—in the interest of the State! He smiled as the words occurred to him. In the interest of the State? What would his fellow victims of the State, of the people, the old Duke of Northborough, for example, say to that, if they knew? But the words were justified. It was to the interest of the State that he, the King, should obtain, from time to time, the refreshment, the renewed strength, the zest, the sense of general well-being, of which he was so pleasantly conscious now.

But, meanwhile, in the interest of the State, he must not, he could not afford to, waste any more of these golden, summer morning moments, idling here in the garden. The avalanche of correspondence in the post bags, and the official documents, and dispatches, which had accumulated, during the last day or two, owing to the special demands on his time made by the Coronation, were awaiting him in the palace. Long hours of desk work lay before him. The thought did not displease him. He was in the mood for work. Here was something he could put his weight into. Here was an opportunity for individual action, and self-expression, an opportunity for the exercise of his own judgment, driving power, decision.

Then, whistling gaily, an indication of cheerfulness which had grown very rare with him, of late, he crossed the lawn, and re-entered the palace, on his way back to duty.

t was in the palace library, a large and lofty room on the ground floor, with a row of tall windows overlooking the garden, that the King spent his office hours. The library was strictly reserved for his use alone. The secretaries, who served his personal needs, were accommodated in a smaller room adjoining, which communicated with the library by folding doors. Although he was compelled to maintain, in this way, the isolation which was so little to his taste, it was characteristic of the King, in his dealings with his immediate subordinates, that he should take some pains not to appear too patently the man apart. This was the way they had taught him in the Navy. On more than one "happy ship," on which he had served, the King had learnt that, to get good work out of subordinates, it was expedient to treat them as fellow workers, and equals, as men, although graded differently in rank, for the purposes of discipline, and pay. It was in more or less mechanical application of this principle, that, still whistling gaily, he chose now, to enter the library, not directly, but through the secretaries' room adjoining.

In the airy, sunny, secretaries' room, the low murmur of talk, and the clatter of typewriters, which seem inseparable from office work, ceased abruptly. There was a general, hurried, pushing back of chairs. Then the half dozen men and women in the room rose, hastily, to their feet. They had not expected to see the King so early. After the exhausting Coronation ceremony of the day before, and the heavy demands on his strength, which the day, as a whole, had made, they had expected him to rest. And here he was, a little before his usual time, if anything, buoyant, and vigorous, and laughing goodhumouredly at their surprise and confusion, ready apparently to attack the accumulation of papers which they had waiting for him.

With a genial nod, which seemed to be directed to each man and woman present, individually, the King passed quickly through the room, into the library beyond, opening and shutting the intervening folding doors for himself, with a sailor's energy.

The secretaries, men and women alike, turned, and looked at each other, and smiled.

Although he was, of necessity, ignorant of the fact, the King had left interested, and very willing fellow workers behind him.

The library was almost too large, and too lofty a room to be comfortably habitable. Worse still, in spite of its south aspect, and its row of tall windows, the eight or nine thousand volumes, which filled the wire fronted bookcases, which ran round two sides of the room, it always seemed to the King, gave it a dead and musty air. These books were for show, not for use. No one ever took them down from the shelves. No one ever read them. The erudite, silver-haired, palace librarian, himself, was more concerned with the rarities amongst them, and with his catalogue, than with their contents. But the books, musty monuments of dead men's brains, as he regarded them, were not the King's chief complaint. A number of Family portraits, which usurped the place of the bookcases, here and there, on the lofty walls, were his real grievance. A queer feeling of antagonism had grown up between him and these portraits. They always seemed to be watching him, watching him, and disapproving of him. The mere thought of them sufficed to check his good spirits, now, as he entered the library. As he sat down at his writing table, he turned, and looked round at them defiantly.

The writing table stood as close up to the row of tall windows, on the south side of the library, as was possible. The windows, with their pleasant view of the sunlit greenness of the garden, were on the King's left, as he sat at the table. Straight in front of him were the undecorated, black oak panels of the folding doors which led into the secretaries' room. On his right on the north wall of the library, were many of the books, and three of the portraits.

First of all, there, in the corner by the folding doors, was a portrait of his grandfather, in the Coronation robes, and full regalia, which he himself had been compelled to wear, the day before; a strong, bearded man, with a masterful mouth, which was not hidden by his beard. A King. Further along, on the right, past several square yards of books, hanging immediately above the ornate, carved, marble mantelpiece, in the centre of the north wall, was a portrait of his father, in Field Marshal's uniform, with his breast covered with decorations; a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote, with a brooding light in his eyes. A King, too. Then, past more books, in the furthest corner of the room, by the door, came the portrait of his mother, a stately, commanding figure, in a wonderful, ivory satin gown, marvellously painted. A Queen. And a hard woman, hard with her children, and harder still with herself, where what she had held to be a matter of Family duty had been concerned. And, last of all, in the centre of yet more books, on the east wall, behind him, was the portrait of his brother, the dead Prince of Wales, a more human portrait this, to see which, as he sat at the writing table, he had to swing right round in his revolving chair; the Prince, in the pink coat, white cord riding breeches, and top boots, of the hunting field, which had been his favourite recreation, leaning a little forward, it seemed, and smiling out of the canvas with the smile which had won him so much, and such well deserved popularity.

All these had borne the Family burden, without complaint. All these had accepted the great responsibility of their position, without question, and even with a certain Royal pride. They had made innumerable, never ending sacrifices.

The King swung round, impatiently, in his chair, back to the writing table again.

An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but, at any rate, he could labour. He could put his full weight into his work. He could show, in his own way, even if it was not the Family way, even if the Family disapproved of him, that he, too, was a man, that he, too, had individuality, force of character, driving power, decision—

Portfolios, and files, of confidential State documents had been arranged, in neat piles, and in a sequence which was a matter of a carefully organized routine, on the left of the writing table. On the right stood a number of shining, black japanned dispatch boxes, and one or two black leather dispatch cases, of the kind carried by the King's Messengers. The "In" boxes for correspondence, in the centre of the table, were filled with a formidable accumulation of letters. The "Out" boxes, beside them, looked, at the moment, in the brilliant, morning sunlight, emptier than emptiness.

An almost bewildering array of labour saving devices, stamping, sealing, and filing machines, completed the furnishing of the table. These, the King swept, at once, contemptuously to one side. The telephone instrument, which stood on a special shelf at his elbow, was the only labour saving device he ever used. A plain, and rather shabby fountain pen, and two or three stumps of coloured pencil, were the instruments with which he did his work. It was not until he had found these favourite weapons of attack, and placed them ready to his hand, on his right, that he set himself to deal with the accumulation of papers in front of him.

The letters in the "In" boxes were his first concern. These he had merely to approve, by transferring them to the "Out" boxes, ready for posting. It was a transfer which he could safely have made, which he very often did make, without reading a single letter. His personal correspondence was in the capable hands of Lord Blaine, who had served his father, as private secretary, for many years before him. But this morning, in his new determination to find an outlet for his own individuality, the King elected to read each of the letters through carefully. Lord Blaine had acquired a happy tact, in the course of his long experience, in answering the letters, from all sorts and conditions of people, which found their way into the Royal post bags, which was commonly considered beyond criticism.

None the less, now, as he read the letters, a conviction grew upon the King that not a few of the courtly old nobleman's phrases had become altogether stereotyped.

One letter, in particular, addressed to some humble old woman, in a provincial almshouse, congratulating her on her attainment of a centenary birthday, seemed to him far too formal. The old woman had written a quaint, and wonderfully clear letter, in her own handwriting to the King. Seizing his favourite stump of blue pencil, he added, on the spur of the moment, two or three unconventional sentences of his own, to Lord Blaine's colourless reply—

Laughing softly to himself the King tossed the letter, thus amended, into one of the "Out" boxes.

From the correspondence boxes, he turned, in due course, to the portfolios and files on the left of the table. These contained reports, and routine summaries from the various Government departments, copies of official correspondence, one or two Government publications, and certain minor Cabinet papers, and they required more concentrated attention. He had to make himself familiar with the contents of the various documents, and this involved careful reading. An abstract, or a skilful précis, prepared by his secretaries, and attached to the papers, occasionally saved his time and labour; but even these had to be read, and the reading took time. Happily, here, as before, little or no writing, on his part, was necessary. An initial, and a date, to show that he had seen the document in question, a few words of comment, or a curt request for more information, were the only demands made on his blue pencil.

Documents, and copies of correspondence, from the Foreign and Dominion Offices, held the King's attention longest. To him these were not "duty" papers, as were so many of the others. The place names, the names of the foreign diplomats, and of the Dominion statesmen, and administrators, which occurred in these papers, were familiar to him, thanks to the many ports, and countries, the many men and cities, he had seen in his varied naval service. Here and there, in these papers, a single word would shine out, at times, from the typewritten page in front of him, which conjured up, a vision, perhaps, of one of the world's most beautiful roadsteads, or a mental picture of the strong and rugged features of some man, who was a power, a living force, amongst his fellows, in the wilder places of the earth, or a vivid memory of the cool and spacious rooms of some Eastern club house where men, who lived close to the elemental facts of life, gathered to make merry, and to show unstinted hospitality to the stranger. Here he was on sure ground. Here, he knew, his comments were often of real value. He had seen the country. He had met, and talked with, the men on the spot. Frequently, his knowledge of the questions raised in these papers was quite as comprehensive, and as intimate, as that of the oldest permanent officials in Whitehall.

At the end of an hour and a half of hard and methodical work, the King became suddenly aware that he had made considerable progress in his attack on the accumulation of papers in front of him.

Leaning back in his chair he touched a bell which stood on the table beside him.

The folding doors, leading into the secretaries' room, were immediately opened, and a tall, fair, good looking young man, who was chiefly remarkable for the extreme nicety of his immaculate morning dress, entered the library, in answer to the summons.

The King indicated the now full "Out" boxes, with a gesture, which betrayed his satisfaction, and even suggested a certain boyish pride, in the visible result of his labour.

"Not at the moment, I think, sir. The Government Circulations are all unusually late this morning, sir," the tall young man replied, approaching the table, and picking up the "Out" boxes for removal to the secretaries' room.

"Bought any cars, lately, Blunt?" he enquired, with a merry twinkle in his eyes.

He had suddenly realized that this was Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage in Lower Grosvenor Place, and the nominal purchaser of the car housed there.

Geoffrey Blunt laughed, and then blushed, as he became conscious of the liberty into which the King had betrayed him.

"We must organize one of our little incognito excursions, in the near future, Blunt, I think," the King murmured, looking out through the tall windows, on his left, at the sunny, morning glory of the garden. "We will run out into the country."

At the moment, his thoughts were in Paradise. Judith and the Imps, in all probability, would be in the hayfields—

"You must be ready for a holiday, sir," Geoffrey Blunt ventured to remark. "You took us all by surprise, this morning, sir. After yesterday, we did not expect to see you, so early, this morning, sir."

"No. And that reminds me of something I wanted to say," the King replied, looking round from the windows, and speaking with a sudden, marked change of manner. "I can see by the papers which you had waiting for me, this morning, that you people have all been keeping hard at it during the last day or two. I appreciate that. Tell your colleagues, in the next room, that I expressed my appreciation. That is all now. Let me see today's Circulations, when they do arrive. I do not want to be faced with an accumulation of papers, like this morning's, again."

Flushing with pleasure at this praise, Geoffrey Blunt bowed, and withdrew, taking the "Out" boxes with him.

Leaning back in his chair, for a moment or two, he gave himself up to the luxury of the true smoker's idleness.

But had there not been something that he had meant to do, in any interval of rest, like this, which might occur during the morning?

The morocco bound memorandum tablet, which he produced from his waistcoat pocket, answered the question—

It was too late to send any message to Lancaster now. A couple of hours was not sufficient notice to give him of an invitation to lunch. He was not intimate enough with Lancaster to treat him in so offhand a manner. It would be an abuse of his new position, a tactical mistake. The lunch must be arranged for tomorrow. Crossing off his original note, he scribbled another—

Clearing a space on the writing table, by pushing to one side the less urgent documents and papers, which he had retained for subsequent attention, he picked up his fountain pen; then, when he had found, after some search, a sheet of note paper sufficiently plain and unostentatious, to suit his taste, he began to write—

Then there entered, not Geoffrey Blunt, nor any other member of the secretarial staff, but—the old Duke of Northborough.

The King looked up with a surprise which at once gave place to a smile of welcome. This was contrary to all etiquette. But he was glad to see the old Duke. And it was in deference to his own repeated requests on the subject that the veteran Prime Minister had lately consented to make his visits to the palace, in working hours, as informal as possible.

Putting down his pipe, and his pen, the King stood up to receive the old statesman.

The Duke, as if to atone for the abruptness of his entry, paused for a moment on the threshold of the large and lofty room, and bowed, with a slightly accentuated formality.

n unusually tall man, and a big man, with a breadth of chest, and a pair of shoulders, which had made him conspicuous, in every assembly, from his youth up, the Duke still held himself erect, and moved in a big way. Now, as he advanced into the large and lofty room, the thought came to the King, that here was a man for whom the room was neither too large, nor too lofty. While he himself was apt to feel lost in the library, overpowered by its size, and oppressed by the weight of its inanimate objects, the Duke moved as if in his natural and fitting surroundings. The force, the vigour, of the wonderful old man at once relegated the huge room to its proper place in the background. The effect was very much as if the library had been a stage scene, in which the scenery had predominated, until this, the moment when a great actor entered, and drew all eyes.

It was characteristic of the Duke that he should be dressed with a carelessness bordering on deliberate eccentricity. The roomy, comfortable, sombre black office suit, which he was wearing, looked undeniably shabby, and hung loosely on his giant frame. His head was large. His hair, which he wore a little longer than most men, snow-white now but still abundant, was brushed back from his broad forehead in a crescent wave. His features were massive, and strongly moulded. His nose was salient, formidable, pugnacious. His mouth was wide. His lips had even more than the usual fulness common to most public speakers. But his eyes were the dominant feature of his face. His eyebrows were still black, thick, and aggressively bushy. Underneath them, his eyes shone out, luminous and a clear blue, with the peculiar, piercing, penetrative quality, which seems to endow its possessor with the power to read the secret, unspoken, thoughts of other men.

"Enter—the Duke!" the King exclaimed, with an engagingly boyish smile, as the veteran Prime Minister approached the writing table. "The Duke could not have entered at a more opportune moment. I was just taking an 'easy.' Shall we stay here, or go out into the garden, or up on to the roof?"

"We will stay here, I think, if the decision is to rest with me, sir," the Duke replied, in his sonorous, deep, and yet attractively mellow voice. "I bring news, sir. As usual, I have come to talk!"

Placing his own revolving chair in position for the Duke, a little way back from the writing table, as he spoke, he invited him to be seated, with a gesture.

The Duke settled himself, deliberately, in the revolving chair, swinging it round to the right, so that he could escape the brilliant, summer sunshine, which was streaming into the room, through the row of tall windows, on his left. His side face, as it was revealed now to the King, wrinkled and lined by age as it was, had the compelling, masterful appeal, the conspicuous, uncompromising strength, of an antique Roman bust.

"I had just begun a letter to my sister, the Princess Elizabeth, when you came in," the King remarked, maintaining the boyish attitude, which he could never avoid, which, somehow, he never wished to avoid, in the Duke's presence. "It suddenly occurred to me, this morning, that I am the Head of the Family now. I am a poor substitute for my immediate predecessors, I am afraid." He looked up, as he spoke, at the portraits on the opposite side of the room. "But I have decided that I must do my best in my new command."

The Duke looked up in turn. Following the King's glance, his luminous, piercing eyes rested, for a moment or two, on the portraits.

"None of your immediate predecessors were ever called upon to play so difficult a part, as you have to play, sir," he said.

Something in the Duke's manner, a note of unexpected vehemence in his sonorous voice, arrested the King's wandering attention.

"What is it?" he asked. "I remember, now, you said you brought news. Is it—bad news?"

"No. It is good news, sir. I could not bring you better news," the Duke replied. "But, I am afraid, in spite of all my warnings, you are not prepared for the announcement which I have to make."

"The storm, which we have been expecting, for so long, sir," he added, slowly, dwelling on each word, "is about to break."

"I have been a fool," he exclaimed. "In my mind, the glass was 'Set Fair.' I had—forgotten—the storm! I was going to take hold of my job. I was going to put my full weight into my work. I was even going to cultivate the Family, as I was telling you—"

The Duke drew out his watch, an old-fashioned, gold-cased, half hunter, and looked at it judicially.

"It is now nearly eleven o'clock. In an hour's time, at twelve noon precisely, a universal, lightning strike will take effect, throughout the length and breadth of the country, sir," he replied. "All the public services will cease to run. The individual workman, no matter where, or how, he is employed, as the clock strikes twelve, will lay down his tools, put on his coat, and leave his work. Such a strike is no new thing, you will say. But this is no ordinary strike, sir. Although whole sections of trades unionists, up and down the country, we have good ground to believe, have no very clear idea, why they are striking, although many of their local leaders appear to have been deceived into the belief that the strike has been called for purely industrial reasons, we have indubitable evidence that it is designed as a first step in the long delayed conspiracy to secure the political ascendency of the proletariat. A little company of revolutionary extremists have, at last, captured the labour machine, sir. It is they who are behind this strike. Behind them, I need hardly tell you, are the Internationalists, and the Communists, on the Continent, ready, and eager, to supply arms, ammunition, and money, if the opportunity arises, on a lavish scale.

"Although we have been expecting the storm for so long, this strike form, which it has taken, I may confess to you, sir, has come to us as something of a surprise. The strike leaders, I surmise, are relying, very largely, on that surprise effect, for their success. They imagine, they hope, no doubt, that they will find the Government, elated and thrown off their guard by the success of the Coronation, unprepared; that, in the chaos, which they believe must ensue, the whole nation will be at their mercy; that, having demonstrated their power, they will be able to dictate their own terms. What those terms would be, sir, there can be no question. Internationalism. Communism. A Republic. That persistent delusion of the fanatic, and the unpractical idealist—the Perfect State. Armed revolt was their original plan, sir. Thanks to the vigilance of our Secret Service Agents, that contingency has, I believe, been obviated. But the Red Flag is still their symbol, sir. In the absence of arms, a bloodless revolution appears now to be their final, desperate dream. They will have a rude awakening, sir. In less than twenty-four hours they will be—crushed!

"You will remember the alternative, protective schemes, for use in the event of a national emergency, which I had the honour to lay before you, for your consideration, a few weeks ago, sir? One of those schemes, the 'Gamma' scheme, is already in force. At a full meeting of the Cabinet, held in Downing Street, this morning, sir, the immediate operation of the 'Gamma' scheme, and the declaration of Martial Law, on which it is based, were unanimously approved. The military, and the naval authorities are already making their dispositions. By this time, the Atlantic, the North Sea, and the Channel Fleets, will be concentrating. The closing of all the ports, and the blockade of the whole coast line, provided for in the scheme, will follow automatically. The military authorities, you will remember, are to take over the control of the railways, aviation centres, and telegraphic and wireless stations, and support, and reinforce, the police, as required. The Home Secretary assures me that the police can be relied upon implicitly to do their duty. The Chief of the General Staff declares that the Army, regrettably small as it is, is sufficient to meet all the demands which are likely to be made upon it. Of the Navy, there is no need for me to speak to you, sir. In the circumstances, I feel justified in assuring you, that we have the situation well in hand."

The Duke stood up. To him, the orator, the practised debater, speech always came more easily, and naturally, when he was on his feet. He turned now, and faced the King, towering head and shoulders above him, a formidable, and dominating figure. When he spoke again, there was an abrupt, compelling, personal note in his sonorous voice.

"I want you to leave the palace, sir. I want you to remove the Court, at once, into the country," he said. "Do not misunderstand me, sir. I do not believe that your person is in any danger. I do not anticipate, as I have already indicated, that we shall be called upon to meet armed revolt. In any case, Londoners are proverbially loyal. But there will be rioting, and window smashing, in places, no doubt. Something of the sort may be attempted, here, at the palace. In the circumstances, it will be as well, that you should be elsewhere.

"In urging you to leave the palace, and to remove the Court into the country, I have, too, another, and a more important motive, sir," he continued. "It is, of course, a fundamental condition, a constitutional truism, of our democratic monarchy, that the King must take no side. How far that consideration must govern the King's actions, when his own position is directly attacked, is a question which, I imagine, very few of our leading jurists would care to be called upon to decide! But I attach the very greatest importance to the preservation of your absolute neutrality, in the present crisis, sir. When the impending storm has spent its force, and the danger, such as it is, has subsided, there will be a considerable body of people, up and down the country, who will contend that the Government have acted precipitately, unconstitutionally, and with wholly unnecessary violence. In meeting such criticism, I wish to be able to emphasize the fact that the Government have acted throughout on their own responsibility, on my responsibility, without any reference to you at all, sir. I do not propose to advance, on your behalf, the time-honoured excuse that His Majesty accepted the advice tendered to him by his advisers. I propose to emphasize the fact that you at once removed the Court into the country, and took no part whatever in the suppression of the rebellion. In the result, your position will be maintained inviolate, but you will not share in the unpopularity, and the odium, which a demonstration of strength inevitably, and invariably, evokes. This is why I said that you have a more difficult part to play than any of your immediate predecessors were ever called upon to play, sir. Although the battle is joined, and you are so intimately concerned with its result, you will have to stand on one side, and take no part in the conflict. And you are a young man, and a high spirited young man. You will resent your neutrality.

"But I am the lightning conductor, sir! It is my duty, as I see it, and I regard it as the honour of my life, to take the full shock of the lightning flash, so that the Crown may remain on your head unshaken. And the Crown will not only remain on your head unshaken. It will be more firmly fixed there than before. In twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, at the most, sir, you will be more surely established on the throne than any of your immediate predecessors.

"That is why I said, at the outset, that this is good news which I have brought you, sir; that I could not bring you better news. This is good news, sir. Never have I dared to hope that the battle, which we have been expecting so long, would be joined, at a time, and on ground, so wholly favourable to the forces of law and order. I have no doubt of the adequacy, and the smooth working of the 'Gamma' scheme, in the existing crisis, sir. It will be many years, probably the whole of your reign, perhaps a generation, before the revolutionary extremists in this country recover from the overwhelming disaster towards which they are rushing at this moment."

It was then, and not until then, that the King slipped down from his perch on the writing table to his feet.

Outside, in the palace garden, the brilliant morning sunshine lay golden on the green of the grass, and on the darker green of the trees.

The whistling of a thrush, perched on a tree near the windows, seemed stridently audible.

Behind him, beside the writing table, the Duke stood, motionless, silent, expectant.

The magnetism for which the veteran Prime Minister was notorious, the magnetism which he seemed to be able to invoke at will, had not failed him, whilst he talked. For the time being, he had completely dominated the King. But now, the King's own personality reasserted itself, with all the force of a recoil.

A bitter realization of his own impotence, of his own insignificance, was the King's first personal thought.

The battle was joined, the fight for his place in the procession was about to begin, in the market-place, and he, the man most concerned, was the one man who could not take a side.

"I attach the very greatest importance to the preservation of your absolute neutrality in the present crisis, sir."

The decision whether he should fight for his place, step to one side, or fall out, altogether, to the rear, had been taken out of his hands.

The desire for self-assertion, for self-expression, which he had felt, so strongly, only an hour or two previously, flamed up, hotly, anew, within the King. An unwilling King, a half-hearted King, he might be; but to be a nonentity, a man of no account—

The very workman, the individual workman, who—in less than an hour now—as the clock struck twelve, would lay down his tools, put on his coat, and leave his work, was of more account than he was!

Ignorant, and deceived, as he might be, the individual workman, in striking, would be asserting himself, expressing himself.

The fantastic idea caught the King's fevered fancy. It was in tune with the bitter, wilful, rebellious mood which had swept over him. He could not resist the temptation of giving it ironic expression.

"It seems to me, if there is one man, in the whole country, who would be justified in striking, in leaving his work, I am that man!" he exclaimed. "I never wanted, I never expected to have to fill—my present command. To be 'a sailor, not a Prince,' was always my idea. Do people, do these people, who are coming out on strike, and hope to run up the Red Flag, imagine that I get any pleasure, that I get anything but weariness, out of—my place in the procession? If I followed my own wishes now—I should strike, too! I should be the reddest revolutionary of them all. Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity is their war cry, isn't it? Those are the very things I want!"

"Where will you remove the Court, sir?" he asked. "To Windsor? Or to Sandringham?"

The Duke's pointed impenetrability, his persistence, irritated him, at the moment, almost beyond his endurance.

Of course he would have to do as the Duke wished. The Duke was the lightning conductor. He would have to fall in with the Duke's suggestions. His suggestions? His orders! And yet—

Windsor and Sandringham were merely alternative cells in the same intolerable prison house!

Perhaps it was the blithe whistling of the thrush perched on the tree near the windows; perhaps it was the sunlit peace of the palace garden—whatever the cause, the King thought, suddenly, and irrelevantly, of Paradise.

"Whether you fight for your place or not, whether you come out at the head, or the tail, of the procession, wherever the head and the tail may be, whether you step to one side, or fall out altogether, whatever happens to you, my boy, Judith and I, will always be glad to welcome you to the inn at the corner, and give you a seat at our window. You will remember that!"

Here, surely, was an opening, an opportunity, for the self-assertion, the self-expression, which he so ardently desired!

Where should he go, now that the time had come for him to step out of the procession, but into Paradise, to Judith and to Uncle Bond, to stand beside them, at their window, in the old inn, at the corner of the market-place, the old inn, on the signboard of which was written in letters of gold "Content"?

If he must seek a rural retreat, an asylum, a city of refuge, what better retreat could he have than Judith's and Uncle Bond's oasis, in Paradise, where no strangers ever came?

Swinging round from the windows, he fronted the Duke, flushed with excitement wholly defiant.

"I will leave the palace, at once, as you wish," he announced. "I have no alternative, of course. I recognize that. But I shall leave the Court behind, too! Neither Windsor, nor Sandringham, attract me. I begin to feel the need of—a holiday. I shall run out into the country. I have—friends in the country."

An odd, dancing light, which almost suggested a suddenly awakened sense of humour, shone, for a moment, in the Duke's luminous, piercing eyes.

But he pursed up his lips doubtfully, "It is a private, incognito visit, that you are suggesting, I take it, sir?" he remarked. "In the present crisis, such a visit would involve—serious risks. But, I am bound to confess, that it would not be without—compensating advantages!" His grim smile returned. "No one would know where you were. And your departure from the palace, which must not be delayed, would attract little or no attention. If you left the Court behind you, as you propose, you would merely take one or two members of the household staff with you, I presume?"

The Duke shot one of his keen, searching glances at the King. Then he swung round on his heel, and paced slowly down the whole length of the library.

His first words, as he halted, once again, beside the writing table absolutely took the King's breath away.

"I shall offer no opposition whatever to your reckless little excursion, sir," he said. "I surprise you, sir? I hoped to surprise you! But this is no time, there is no time, for—explanations. Reckless as your proposal is, the more I think about it, the more conscious I become of its many advantages. But, with your permission, sir, I will attach two conditions to your—holiday." Again he smiled grimly. "In the first place, I must know where you are going, so that I can communicate with you, at once, when the need arises. In the second place I will ask you to honour me with an undertaking that you will remain in your rural retreat, until I have communicated with you."

The King could hardly believe his own ears. That the Duke should accept, should even express a guarded approval of his rebellion—that was what his reckless proposal amounted to!—was wholly unbelievable. It could not be true!

A sudden sense of unreality, the consciousness, which had been so frequently with him, of late, here in the palace, that he was living in a dream, a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream, swept over the King.

He had expected opposition, and argument. What he had wanted, he realized now, was opposition and argument—

But he had gone too far to withdraw. And he had no wish to withdraw. At any rate he would see Judith. He would see Uncle Bond. He would be—in Paradise—

Without speaking, words at the moment, were quite beyond him, the King drew up his revolving chair to the writing table, once again, and sat down. Picking up the sheet of note-paper on which he had begun to write to his sister—how long ago that seemed!—he tore off the unused half of the paper, crumpling the other half up in his hand. Then he found his pen, and wrote—

The Duke glanced at the paper, and then folded it up neatly, and slipped it into his pocket.

"You have no time to lose, sir," he said. "It is already nearly half past eleven. Within half an hour, just before noon, all civilian traffic, in and out of London, will cease. The police, and the military will be in control in the streets. Barriers will be erected on all the roads. Only Government traffic will be allowed to pass. You have time to get away, but only just time."

The King sprang up to his feet, and darted across the room. He was, all at once, wild to get away, wild to get away from the Duke, from the palace, from himself, from this unreal, grotesque, nightmare life of his—

But, half way across the room, he paused, and swung round, and faced the Duke yet once again.

A sudden, belated twinge of compunction, a whisper of the conscience which he had all this time been defying, had impelled him to think of the Duke.

"Am I letting you down, Duke?" he exclaimed impulsively. "After—all you have done for me—I wouldn't let you down for worlds!"

A smile, in which there was no trace of grimness, lit up the old Duke's rugged, massive features.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "You are not letting me down, sir. You can enjoy your—reckless little excursion—with an easy mind. But I did not like, and I do not like, your use of that ill-omened word 'strike,' sir,—even in jest! Remembering the language of the Service, in which, like you, I had the honour to be trained, I prefer to say that you are—proceeding on short leave of absence, shall we say, sir? It will only be a short leave of absence, sir. Twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, at the most. You will do well, I think, sir, to remember that!"

Incredible as the whole scene was, there could be no doubt about the old statesman's entire sincerity. The King's last fear, his last scruple fell from him. In his relief he laughed aloud, lightheartedly.

"Call it whatever you like, Duke," he exclaimed. "But, for me, it is—my way of going on strike!"

Left alone, the Duke remained motionless, for a minute or two. The smile, which the King's impulsive ingenuousness had evoked, still lingered on his lips; but his piercing eyes were clouded now, and heavy with thought.

Suddenly he turned to the writing table, and, picking up the telephone instrument, took down the receiver.

There was a curt, commanding, masterful ring in his sonorous voice, as he gave his directions to the operator at the palace exchange.

"The Duke of Northborough is speaking. I want Scotland Yard, and the War Office, at once, in that order. You will give me 'priority.' Shut out all other calls."

feeling of light-hearted holiday irresponsibility, such as he had not known for months, for years as it seemed to him, was with the King as he darted out of the library. He raced along the palace corridors like a schoolboy released from school. The palm and orange tree decorated lounge, half vestibule, and half conservatory, from which ran the private staircase leading up to his own suite of rooms, was his first objective. He had intended to make a wild dash up to his rooms to secure some sort of hat, and the dust coat, in which he usually escaped from the palace. Happily, now, as he entered the lounge, his eyes were caught by a tweed cap, which he wore sometimes in the garden, which was lying on a side table, where he had tossed it, a day or two ago. Laughing triumphantly, he picked up this cap, and crammed it down on to his head. Then he darted out of the lounge, through the open glass door, into the garden.

In the garden, the air was heavy with the rich scents of the blossoming shrubs and flowers. The brilliant morning sunshine struck the King, as he hurried along the paths, with almost a tropical force. In spite of the heat, as soon as he was sure that he was securely screened by the shrubberies, he broke, once again, into a run. Lighthearted, and irresponsible, as his mood was, he was conscious of the need for haste. His running soon brought him, flushed, and panting a little, but in no real distress, to the small, green painted, wooden door, in the boundary wall, at the far end of the garden. Hurriedly producing his keys, he unlocked the door, and swung it open. A moment later, as the door, operated by its spring, closed behind him, he stood on the pavement of Lower Grosvenor Place.

Lower Grosvenor Place, as usual, was almost deserted. One or two chance pedestrians were moving along the pavement. Immersed in their own dreams and cares, they paid no attention whatever to the King. Higher up the sunlit street, a grizzled, battered looking old Scotchman, in tawdry Highland costume, was producing a dismal, droning wail on bagpipes, in front of one of the largest of the tall houses, in the hope, no doubt, that he would be given "hush money," and sent away, before the arrival of life's inevitable policeman.

After a quick glance up, and then down, the street, the King darted across the road, turned into the familiar cul-de-sac on the other side, and so passed into the secluded, shut-in mews at the back of the tall houses.

No one was visible in the mews, as the King unlocked, and opened, the doors of Geoffrey Blunt's garage. A minute or two sufficed for him to run out the car. Flinging on the thick, leather coat, and adjusting the goggles, which lay ready to his hand, where he had tossed them that morning, he re-locked the garage doors. Then he sprang up into his seat at the steering wheel of the car, and started the engine.

For one anxious moment, he feared that the engine was going to fail him; but, next moment, it settled sweetly to its work, and the car shot forward, out of the secluded mews, up the quiet, side street beyond, and so into Grosvenor Place.

In Grosvenor Place, the chance pedestrians who had been moving along the sunlit pavement had passed on, out of sight, still immersed, no doubt, in their own dreams and cares. The grizzled, battered looking old Scotchman, in Highland costume, had just succeeded, apparently, in extorting his "hush money." With his bagpipes tucked under his arm, he was swaggering along now, in the centre of the road, his ruddy, weatherbeaten, wrinkled face wreathed in smiles.

The car caught up, and passed the triumphant old blackmailer in a cloud of dust.

A moment later, as he approached Hyde Park Corner, the King decided to vary the route which he usually followed. With this end in view, he swung the car sharply to the right, down Constitution Hill. At this hour of the day, it occurred to him, Park Lane and Oxford Street, his usual route, would be crowded with traffic. By running down Constitution Hill, and out into, and along, the Mall he would probably secure an open road, and so save several minutes. And every minute he could save now, might be of vital importance later.

The car had a clear run down Constitution Hill. In the Mall, the Coronation flags still hung, flaunting and gay in the sunlight. The stands, on either side of the road, from which the guests of the Government had viewed the Coronation procession, the day before, were, too, still in position. The Office of Works, at the moment, no doubt, had far more important, and urgent enterprises on hand, than the removal of flags, and the dismantling of stands.

Sweeping along the Mall, and under the lavishly decorated Admiralty Arch, the car ran out into Trafalgar Square, without a check. But here, almost at once, the King had to pull up abruptly. The policeman, on point duty, at the top of Whitehall, had his arm held out against all eastbound traffic. Irritated by, and chafing under, the delay, the King was compelled to apply his brakes, and run the car into position, in the long queue of waiting vehicles, which had already gathered behind the policeman's all powerful arm.

A moment later, looking up from his brakes, as the car came to a standstill, he became aware that he had pulled up immediately beneath the equestrian statue of Charles the First.

Here was an odd, an amusing—a superstitious man might even have said an ominous—coincidence.

Had not the storm which was about to break, broken before, long ago, in this man's reign?

The King looked up at the statue with a sudden flash of quickened, sober interest.

Had not this man, alone, amongst all his predecessors been compelled to drain the poisonous cup of revolution to the very dregs?

There had been no lightning conductor, no Duke of Northborough, no strong man, sure of himself, and of his purpose, ready, and eager, to take the full shock of the lightning flash, in this man's day.

But there had been. The Earl of Strafford. And Charles—Charles the Martyr, did not some people still call him?—had torn his lightning conductor down with his own hands. He had failed Strafford. He had abandoned him to his enemies. With his own hand, he had signed Strafford's, and so, in a sense, his own, death warrant.

He had not failed the Duke anyway. The Duke had assured him that he was not letting him down. If he believed, for a moment, that he was failing the Duke, he would turn round, even now, and go straight back to the palace.

There, at any rate, this man, fixed there, high above him, on horseback, in imperishable bronze, against the clear blue of the summer sky, had been more fortunate than he was. This man had never known the bitterness of neutrality, of personal impotence, of personal insignificance. This man had had a part to play, and he had played it, not unhandsomely, at the last, they said. There was a jingle of some sort about it—

Nothing common or mean? Not at the last, perhaps. But, before the last, in his failure of Strafford?

Still, limited, narrow, and bigoted, as he was, this man had lived, and died, for the faith that was in him.

He had stood for, he had fought for, he had died for—the Divine Right of Kings!

But was it any more grotesquely absurd than the opposition, the counter-phrases, in praise of democracy, of the mob?

Happily people were growing chary of using such phrases. They had been too often used as a cloak to hide personal prejudices and passions, to be trusted much longer.

At that moment, the King suddenly realized that the driver of the taxi-cab, immediately behind him, in the queue of waiting traffic, was performing a strident obligato on his motor horn, which indicated, unmistakably, the violence of despair. Looking down with a start, he became aware, that unnoticed by him in his reverie, the block in the traffic had cleared, that the road lay open before him, and that he was holding up the long line of vehicles behind him, by his absence of mind, and consequent delay.

The policeman on point duty smiled at him, reproachfully, as he succeeded, at last, in catching his eye, and then waved him forward.

Flushing with momentary annoyance, at the absurdity of his position, the King hastily let out the car once again.

The car leapt forward, swept round the square, and so passed into, and up, Charing Cross Road, into Tottenham Court Road beyond—

The King's thoughts turned naturally and inevitably to Judith, and to Uncle Bond.

What was he to say to Judith, and to Uncle Bond? How was he to explain to them his unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate, return to their quiet haven?

But that, he suddenly realized, with a shock, only touched the fringe of his problem!

Sooner or later, even in their peaceful retreat, Judith and Uncle Bond would hear that the storm had broken. They would hear that Martial Law had been proclaimed. Knowing that, they would know, Judith with her knowledge of the Navy would know, that his place, as a sailor, was with his ship. And that was not all. Had he not given their address to the Duke? The Duke would be communicating with him—

Somehow, it had never occurred to him, at the time, what his giving of their address to the Duke involved. Not only would his real identity be revealed at last. His intimacy with Judith, and Uncle Bond would be no longer a secret. The Duke had Uncle Bond's address. The Duke would soon know all that there was to be known about Uncle Bond—about Judith—

Yes. He would have to tell Judith, and Uncle Bond, who he was, at once, before they learnt who he was, from other lips than his.

Without knowing it, he had burnt his boats; unwittingly, he had forced his own hand.

Would Judith and Uncle Bond believe him? Would they resent his deception? Would the shadow thrown by his Royal rank mar the delightful spontaneity of their intercourse, as he had always feared it would? It could not be helped now, if it did! But, it seemed to him, that it need not, that it should not. The unwavering friendship, of which Uncle Bond had assured him, only that morning, would surely bear the strain? He would take Uncle Bond at his word.

"I have stepped out of my place in the procession, and come to join you at your window, here in the quiet old inn of 'Content.' I want to forget the fight in the market-place. Help me to forget it! Let us forget the past, avoid looking at the future—what the future will bring who can say?—and live, for the time being, in the present."

Uncle Bond, and Judith—their astonishment at his real identity once over, and their astonishment would be amusing!—would not refuse such an appeal.

After all, had it not always been their way, in Paradise, to live in the present?

Judith! What would she think? What would she say? She would understand his hesitation, his backwardness, his—apparent halfheartedness—now! She would be generous. Judith? Judith would not fail him—

By this time, the car was running through one of the more popular shopping districts in the inner suburbs. The shops on either side of the sunlit road, were still gaily decorated. The pavements were crowded. In the road, there was a good deal of traffic about, and the King had to drive, for the time being, more circumspectly. The stalls of an open air market provided an exasperating obstruction. Ultimately he had to pull up, and wait for an opening. This necessity served to recall him completely to his immediate surroundings. It was then, while he waited, chafing with impatience at the delay, that he first became aware that the police were abroad in unusual numbers.

Impassive, and motionless, the police stood, in little groups, here and there, in the crowd. The distance between one group, and the next group, of the burly, blue uniformed men seemed to have been carefully regulated.

A sudden thrill of fear, which was not far removed from panic, ran through the King.

Here, or, perhaps, even further out, on the outskirts of the town, almost certainly.

Hitherto he had never doubted that he would make good his escape. Now, with the police already concentrating, and taking up their position in the streets, he could be no longer sure that he would get away, in time.

Fortunately, at that moment, the road, at last, cleared. The King hastily let out the car once again. Then he opened out the engine, recklessly, to its fullest extent. This was no time for careful driving. The powerfully engined car did not fail him at his need. Sweeping clear of the traffic immediately in front, it was soon rushing along the level surface of the tramway track which led on, out into the outer suburbs.

In the outer suburbs, the traffic was lighter, and the police were much less in evidence. But a convoy of motor lorries, which he rushed past, in which he caught a glimpse of soldiers in khaki service dress, added fuel sufficient to the already flaming fire of the King's anxiety. At any moment, it seemed to him now, he might be called upon to halt, and compelled to return, if he was allowed to return, ignominiously, to the palace.

But the barrier, drawn right across the road, with its little groups of attendant police, and military, which he could see, so vividly, in his imagination, did not materialize. The throbbing car rushed on, through the outer suburbs, on past the last clusters of decorous, red-tiled villas, on through the area of market gardens, where the town first meets, and mingles with the country, on the north side of London, and so out, at last, on to the Great North Road, unchecked, and unchallenged.

The broad high road stretched ahead, empty and deserted, in the brilliant noon sunshine, as far as eye could see.

At last, the familiar, white-painted signpost, the Paradise-Hades post, flashed into view on the left of the road.

A great wave of relief, which told him how tense his anxiety had been, swept over him.

Already, behind him, in the town, the storm had broken. Already the blow had fallen.

All about him lay the sunlit, peaceful countryside. The hedges, on either side of the broad, winding road, were white with the blossoms of the wild rose. Beyond the hedges, stretched the open fields, a vivid, but restful, green in the bright noon light, broken, here and there, by clumps of tall trees, and rising, in a gradual, gracious curve to thickly wooded heights on the skyline.

A young foal, startled by the passing of the car, scrambled up on to his long legs, and fled, across the fields, followed, more sedately, by his heavy, clumsy, patient mother.

One or two rabbits scuttled into the hedge, with a flash of their white bob-tails.

Soon the familiar turning into the narrow, tree shadowed lane, on the left of the road came into view. Swinging into the lane, the King slowed down the car yet once again, partly from habit, and partly because of his enjoyment of the summer beauty all about him.

At the house, at the bottom of the lane, the carriage gate, as usual, stood wide open.

The King drove straight up the drive, where the rhododendron bushes, and the laburnum trees were ablaze with colour, and, round the side of the house, into the garage.

No one was visible in the garden, about the house, or in the outbuildings beyond.

In the silence which followed his shutting off of the engine of the car, he heard the whir of haycutting machines.

Judith herself, who, far more than Uncle Bond, was really responsible for the management of the Home Farm, would be at work in the fields, holding her own with the best of them, in spite of the clamorous demands of the Imps for play.

If Judith, and the Imps had been in the house, they would have run out to welcome him by now.

Flinging off his leather coat, his cap, and his goggles, the King tossed them, one after the other, into the car. Then he sauntered round the side of the house, to the front door.

For a moment or two the King lingered, irresolutely, on the verandah beside the front door.

What should he do? In all probability, the whole household were at work in the hayfields. Should he go and find them there? No. Judith would be astonished to see him. She might betray her astonishment. In the circumstances it would be as well that his meeting with Judith should have as few eye-witnesses as possible.

But Uncle Bond would be in. Had he not declared that "Cynthia" would be good for five or six thousand words that day? The little man would be upstairs, hard at work, in his big, many-windowed writing room. Dare he break in upon Uncle Bond's jealously guarded literary seclusion? It was a thing which he had never ventured to do. It was a thing which Judith herself rarely cared to do. But, after all, this was an exceptional day, if ever there was an exceptional day! Now that he came to think about it, it would be a good thing if he could see Uncle Bond, in his capacity of "heavy father," before he saw Judith. Strictly speaking was it not to Uncle Bond, as his host, that his announcement of his real identity, and his explanations, and his apologies were first due?

With a sudden flash of determination, in which a semi-humorous, boyish desire to face the music, and get it over, played a large part, the King entered the house.

ithin the sunny, airy house there was absolute silence, and perfect stillness. The King crossed the broad, square hall, a pleasant retreat, with its gaily coloured chintz covered chairs, and ottoman, its piano, its bookcases, and its big blue bowls, full of roses, and passed straight up the glistening white staircase, which led to Uncle Bond's quarters on the upper floor. At the head of the staircase, he turned to his left, down a short corridor, in which stood the door of Uncle Bond's writing room. On reaching the door, he paused, for a moment or two, very much as a swimmer pauses, on the high diving board, before he plunges into the deep end of the swimming bath. Then, smiling a little at his own nervous tremors, he knocked at the door, and, opening it without waiting for any reply, entered the room.

The writing room in which Uncle Bond spent his working hours extended along the whole breadth of the house. One side of the room, the side directly opposite to the door, was almost entirely made up of windows, which commanded an uninterrupted view of the garden, and beyond the garden, of a superb sweep of the surrounding, thickly wooded, park-like country. The three other sides of the room were covered with a plain, grey paper, and were bare of all ornament. No pictures, no bookcases, and no pieces of bric-à-brac were displayed in the room. This complete absence of decoration gave a conspicuous, and most unusual, suggestion of emptiness to the whole interior. None the less, with many of the windows wide open, and with the brilliant, summer sunshine streaming in through them, the room had a charm, as well as a character of its own. Above all else, it was a man's room. There was space in which to move about. There was light. And there was air.

Uncle Bond was seated, at the moment the King entered, at a large writing table, which stood in the centre of the room, with his back to the door, busy writing.

The King closed the door quietly behind him, and then halted, just inside the room, and waited, as he had seen Judith do in similar circumstances.

Uncle Bond's writing table was bare and empty like the room in which it stood. The blotting pad on which the little man was writing, a neat pile of completed manuscript on his left, and a packet, from which he drew a fresh supply of paper as he required it, which lay on his right, were the only objects visible on the table. No paraphernalia of pen and ink was in evidence. Uncle Bond worked in pencil. No inkstand, or pen, invented by the wit of man, could satisfy him.

A small table, in the far corner of the room, on the right, on which stood a typewriter, an instrument of torture which the little man loathed, and rarely used, a large sofa, placed under, and parallel with, the windows, and another table, on the left, which appeared to be laid for a meal, with two or three uncompromisingly straight backed chairs, completed the furnishing of the room.

This was a workshop: a workshop from which all the machinery and tools had been removed.

Uncle Bond wrote swiftly. He had a trick of stabbing at the paper in front of him, with his pencil, periodically, which puzzled the King. Ultimately it dawned upon him that this was probably merely Uncle Bond's method of dotting his i's, crossing his t's, and putting in his stops. This supposition appeared to be confirmed, presently, when, with a more energetic stab than usual which marked, no doubt, a final full stop, the little man finished writing.

Uncle Bond wore, when at work, a pair of large, tortoiseshell framed spectacles, which gave a grotesque air of gravity to his round, double chinned, clean-shaven face. He turned now in his chair, and looked at the King, for a moment, over the rims of these spectacles. Then he sprang up to his feet, snatched off his spectacles, and darted across the room to the table on the left, which appeared to be laid for a meal.

"A whole chicken—cold! A salad. A sweet, indescribable, but glutinous, pink, and iced. We shall manage," the little man crowed, as he uncovered a number of dishes on the table, and peered at their contents. "My dear boy, I am delighted to see you. For the last half hour, I have been thinking about lunch, but I disliked the idea of feeding alone. I am, as you have probably already discovered, by myself in the house. Judith and the Imps are picnicking in the hay fields. The servants are all in the fields. Judith hopes to cut, and cart, the Valley fields today. 'Cynthia' and I have had the house to ourselves all morning. We have achieved wonders. I told you 'Cynthia' would function today, didn't I? She is at the top of her form. We are already level with the time-table, and she is still in play. But we shall need some more knives and forks, a plate or two, and a bottle—a bottle decidedly! A light, sparkling, golden wine. A long necked bottle with the right label. I will go downstairs, and forage. You haven't had lunch, I suppose?"

"Good!" the little man chuckled. "You must be hungry. I am. And you look tired. You can pull the table out, and find a couple of chairs, while I am away, if you like. Glasses—and a corkscrew!"

"By the way, Alfred, there is a book on the window sill, beside the sofa, which may interest you," he remarked.

The table was most attractively arranged. No doubt Judith herself had seen to Uncle Bond's meal, before she had left the house, with the Imps, for the hayfields. A bowl of Uncle Bond's favourite roses, in the centre of the table, seemed to speak of Judith's thoughtfulness, and taste. No servant would have laid the table quite like this.

Beyond pulling the table out into the room, nearer to the windows, and placing a couple of chairs in position beside it, there was really nothing that he could do in preparation for the meal, pending Uncle Bond's return with the additional knives and forks, and plates which would be necessary.

Then the King turned to the windows, attracted by the sunlight, and the fresh air.

Uncle Bond had accepted his unprecedentedly early, his almost immediate return, without question, or comment.

The scene which he had visualized between Uncle Bond and himself had not opened like this at all. He had meant to astonish Uncle Bond, at the outset, by his disclosure of his real identity. He had looked forward to astonishing Uncle Bond, he realized now, in spite of his nervous tremors, with real enjoyment. It was he, and not Uncle Bond, who was to have dominated this scene. He was like an actor whose big scene had failed. Somehow he had missed his cue.

One thing was certain. His announcement, his disclosure, of his real identity must be no longer delayed. Somehow he could not bear to think of accepting Uncle Bond's joyous hospitality, of eating his salt, without first confessing his past deception, and receiving the little man's forgiveness and absolution. It was odd that his conscience should have become suddenly so sensitive in the matter. His feeling was quite irrational, of course—

But how was he to make his announcement? It was not the sort of thing that could be blurted out anyhow. He would have to lead up to it somehow.

"I am, or rather I was, until twelve noon, today—the King! Now I am—on strike—taking a holiday!"

Such an announcement, however skilfully he led up to it, would carry no conviction with it. Uncle Bond would not, could not be expected to believe him.

The fact was his dual life, the two distinct parts which he had played for so long, had become too much for him. Hitherto, he had been able to keep the two parts, more or less distinct. Now he was trying to play both parts at once. It was a mental, it was almost a physical, impossibility.

"Alfred," "my boy," the sailor who had just been given promotion, the sailor who served the King, never had been, and never could be—the King.

He was a real man, alive, breathing, and thinking, at the moment, here, in the sunlight, by the windows.

The King whom the old Duke of Northborough addressed as "Sir," the King who lived in the palace, guarded night and day by the soldiery and the police, the King who had, at last, asserted himself recklessly, gone on strike, taken a holiday—he was a mere delusion, a dream.

Yes. "Alfred," "my boy," was gasping for life, taking a last look at the green beauty of the sunlit, summer world, now, here at the windows—

His position was trying enough, as it was, without his indulging in imaginary morbidity!

As he turned, his eyes were caught by an open book, which lay on the window sill, beside the sofa, on his right.

Had not Uncle Bond said something about a book, a book on the window sill, beside the sofa, a book that might interest him? An uncommon book that! He was no reading man, as Uncle Bond knew well. But it might be a copy of the little man's latest shocker—

Welcoming the distraction, the King advanced to the sofa, and picked up the book.

In the centre of the right-hand page of the open volume a couple of sentences had been heavily scored in pencil.

It was a moment or two before the King's brain registered the sense of the words.

Suddenly, with the open book still in his hand, the King sank down on to the sofa.

Uncle Bond had called his attention to the book—a book which might interest him! It was Uncle Bond's pencil which had scored these sentences, so apposite to his own position, so heavily. Uncle Bond must have left the book, open at this page, on the window sill, deliberately.

How did Uncle Bond know? How long had he known? And Judith—did Judith know, too? Why had Uncle Bond chosen this particular moment, and this particular way, to reveal his knowledge? Had the little man's uncanny, unerring instinct told him that he himself was about to reveal his real identity, at last?

Uncle Bond had marked the sentences, and placed the book on the window sill, before he himself had entered the room.

And he had had twinges of compunction, nervous tremors, about the deception which he had practised.

Clearly, it was he himself, and not Uncle Bond, not Judith, who had been deceived—

At that moment, Uncle Bond's returning footsteps, in the corridor, outside the room, became audible.

Uncle Bond entered the room carrying a tray which was loaded with silver, and cutlery, glasses and plates, and the longnecked bottle which he had promised. He shot a shrewd glance at the King, as he crossed the room to the luncheon table; but he set down his tray, on the table, without speaking.

For a moment, the King hesitated. Then he sprang up, impulsively, to his feet, and advanced to the table. Holding out the open book, which he had retained in his left hand, towards Uncle Bond, he tapped it with his right forefinger.

"I do," he acknowledged. "Get the cork out of that bottle, my boy. I've got to carve the chicken."

climax is always a difficult business to handle," Uncle Bond continued, sitting down at the table and beginning his attack on the cold chicken. "It is easy enough to work up to. 'Cynthia' never has any trouble in getting in the necessary punch at the end of her instalments. But to carry on, after the punch, to get the next instalment going—that is a very different affair. In nine cases out of ten, that gives even 'Cynthia' herself a lot of trouble. My dear boy, put down that admirable volume—it is in your left hand!—and, I repeat myself, get the cork out of that bottle! I know you are quite unconscious of the fact, but your attitude, at the moment, is most distressingly wooden."

Laying "The French Revolution, A History, by Thomas Carlyle," down on the table, he picked up the longnecked bottle, and got to work, hurriedly, with the corkscrew.

"Fortunately for us, my boy, you and I can control the development of this scheme," Uncle Bond went on, busy with the carving knife and fork. "It occurs to me, by the way, that I am destined to play the part of general utility man in our—comedy. I can see no immediate opening for the knockabout comedian. A touch of the heavy father may be possible later on. But, meanwhile, explanations are necessary. Obviously that involves the general utility man in the part of 'Chorus.' Strictly speaking, I suppose I ought to address you in blank verse. I will spare you that. One of the old dramatic conventions about the 'Chorus' it seems to me, however, is likely to suit you. 'Chorus' enters solus. You can leave the stage to me—"

At that moment, the cork in the longnecked bottle came away, unexpectedly, as is the habit of corks.

The King filled the glasses on the table with the light, sparkling, golden wine.

"Good!" Uncle Bond crowed. "Now you can sit down, and—sink out into the back-cloth. On the other hand, if you prefer to remain on the stage, a glass of wine is useful stage business."

At the moment, bewildered and almost dazed as he was, he felt very much like a theatrical super, assisting at a stage meal.

"I am giving you a wing, Alfred. No breast!" Uncle Bond continued, proceeding to portion out the dismembered chicken. "My action is symbolical. This is between ourselves, and outside our stage play! There are not many places where they give you the wing of the chicken, are there? You will continue to be given the wing of the chicken here. You will continue to be received here, as you are received nowhere else. Our friend Alfred will find no change, in his reception here—whatever happens. You are reassured, I hope? Your worst fears are stilled? Good! Help yourself to salad. And try the wine. I can recommend it!"

The King took the plate of chicken which the little man held out to him, and helped himself to salad, mechanically. This commonplace routine of the meal served to steady him. In some measure reassured by Uncle Bond's whimsical symbolism, he was relieved to find that he could eat.

Uncle Bond helped himself from the salad bowl in turn, tried the wine, and then settled down, happily, to the meal, which he had been so unwilling to essay alone. But the play of his knife and fork, energetic as it was, did not interfere, for long, with his talk.

"And now to resume our comedy!" he chuckled, in a minute or two. "Between ourselves, my boy, I am enjoying the present situation enormously. But 'Chorus' explanations are necessary, and cannot wait. Therefore— 'Enter Chorus!'

"I have known who you were almost, if not quite, from the first, Alfred. Judith knew you first, of course. Judith recognized you at sight. My dear boy, how could you imagine that it could be otherwise? Have you ever considered the possibilities of the case?

"Judith was born in the Navy. For years she lived in the Navy. She married into the Navy. Of course, she knew 'Our Sailor Prince.' As likely as not his photograph has adorned her mantelpiece ever since the far-away days when she was a romantic schoolgirl. 'Cynthia's' romantic schoolgirls, at any rate, are always like that!

"And I myself? Am I not a member of many clubs? 'Alfred York' was hardly likely to be an impenetrable incognito with me, was it? Wherever you go, too, although you are so strangely unconscious of the fact, you carry about with you a historic face!

"But, even if Judith and I had had no special knowledge, even if we had been lacking in penetration, it seems to me that we must, infallibly, have recognized you, sooner or later. Have you not been, in recent months at least, the most bephotographed young man in Europe? I do not suggest that the picture papers are Judith's, or my, favourite reading. But we have a cook. Do you think that we could keep a cook, who can cook, here, in the country, if we did not supply her with her daily copy of the 'Looking-Glass'? Sooner or later, it seems to me, Judith or I must have taken a surreptitious peep into the kitchen copy of the 'Looking-Glass,' and so seen, and recognized, our friend Alfred in the pictured news of the day."

At this point, the turmoil within the King, surprise, bewilderment, and self-contempt, the latter predominating, became altogether too much for him. He quite forgot the necessary silence of the stage super.

"Exit, Chorus!" Uncle Bond chuckled delightedly. "Slow music— Enter the Hero of the Piece! You were about to say?"

"I don't know what I was going to say," the King muttered uncomfortably, with his eyes on his plate. "I know what I was going to say before you—took the wind out of my sails. I was all ready with a speech. I had two speeches ready."

"It is a pity that they should be wasted," Uncle Bond remarked. "Get them off your chest, my boy. They will probably serve more than one useful purpose. Apart from anything else, they will give me a chance to get on with my lunch. You have got rather ahead of me, I observe. Take which ever comes first. The slow music dies away—the Hero of the Piece speaks—"

The King fingered his wineglass nervously. He wanted to put himself right with Uncle Bond. He wanted to tell him that he had meant to reveal his real identity himself, that he had meant to apologize for the deception he had practised. He wanted to rehabilitate himself in his own eyes.

"I was going to tell you—who I am, myself, Uncle Bond," he began lamely. "I was going to reveal my real identity at last. I was going to apologize to you for my deception, and ask for your—absolution.

"'I am, or rather was, until twelve noon today—the King! Now I am—on strike—taking a holiday—' That was to have been my first speech!"

Engrossed in his own thoughts, and still fingering his wineglass nervously, the King did not notice the little man's movement.

"I hardly expected you to believe me. I did not see how you could possibly believe me," he went on. "I counted on astonishing you—astonishing you!—and Judith. I looked forward to astonishing you." He laughed contemptuously at himself. "I thought that your astonishment would be amusing. This was to have been my scene, not yours. That is partly why—I feel such a fool!"

"When you believed me, when you had recovered from your astonishment, and had forgiven my deception—I knew you—and Judith—would forgive me," the King continued, "I was going to make my second speech. You remember our talk, this morning, about the procession? That seems years ago, now, somehow, doesn't it? In my second speech, I was going to take you at your word about—the procession.

"'I have stepped out of my place in the procession, and come to join you at your window, here, in the quiet old inn of "Content." I want to forget the fight in the market-place. Help me to forget it! Let us forget the past, avoid looking at the future—what the future will bring, who can say?—and live for the time being in the present!' That is what I was going to say. It seemed to me that you—and Judith—would not be able to resist an appeal like that. Here, in Paradise, we have always lived in the present, haven't we?"

"Very pretty!" he chuckled. "I can understand your disappointment, my boy. There was good stuff in your scene. I am glad we have contrived to work in—both your speeches. They are—illuminating. More chicken? A slice of the breast—now? No. Then advance the sweet. And refill the glasses. You approve the wine? Good! Once again I resume my part of 'Chorus.'

"As 'Chorus' allow me to recall your attention to Thomas Carlyle, my boy," he went on, proceeding to serve the sweet. "I am rather proud of that little bit of stage business. 'Cynthia' herself, I flatter myself, could hardly have hit anything neater. How does the quotation run?

"'Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and none yet heard of has been known to commit suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried it; and they cut the rope.'

"It got you—that quotation, my boy,—didn't it? It was meant to get you. I knew your announcement, your confession, would give you trouble. Out of pure good nature—or was it malice?—I anticipated it."

"But how did you know I was going to make my confession?" the King exclaimed, suddenly remembering his previous bewilderment on the subject.

"Thank you, my boy," Uncle Bond chuckled. "I manœuvred, clumsily I fear, for that very question. There is, perhaps, something inherently clumsy in this device of the 'Chorus.' Hence, no doubt, its banishment from the modern stage. I did not know, I could not know, for certain, that you would make your confession. But your confession seemed to me to be inevitable. Or, if not inevitable, necessary. Perhaps I wished to make sure of, as well as help you to, your confession. I must warn you that I have another little surprise saved up for you, my boy. But I will hurry to the end of my explanations. I do so the more readily as I am eager to demand an explanation from you, in turn.

"Paradise, although personally I am careful to suppress the fact as much as possible, is on the telephone. Judith finds it necessary to talk to the Stores! This morning, while 'Cynthia' and I were hard at it, the telephone bell rang violently. The instrument, by the way, is in the pantry. I ignored the summons. I hoped the girl at the Exchange would soon grow weary. She persisted. In the end, 'Cynthia' retired hurt, and I descended the staircase.

"A wonderful instrument! Not the telephone. The human voice. There are voices which rivet the attention at once—even on the telephone. This was one of them—

"'Northborough is speaking. Is that you Bond? Alfred York is motoring down to see you. He is on his way now. You can put him up for twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, I suppose? If you get the opportunity, you can tell him, when he arrives, that everything is proceeding in accordance with plan.'"

"Thanks to you, my boy, yes," Uncle Bond chuckled. "Note in passing, that I—with the assistance of Thomas Carlyle—have created an opportunity to tell you that—'everything is proceeding in accordance with plan!' But we must really finish this sweet. No more for you? Another glass of wine, then? You will find that the bottle will run to it, although those long necks are deceptive."

For a minute or two, there was silence while Uncle Bond made short work of the remnant of the sweet which the King had refused to share.

"When Alfred York, the young and reckless sailor, whose friendship Judith and I have learnt to value so highly in recent months, first showed an unmistakable desire to establish an intimacy with us, I saw no reason why I should—discourage his visits," Uncle Bond resumed with a mischievous chuckle. "Who, and what, our friend Alfred might be elsewhere, how he might fill in his—spare time—elsewhere, it seemed to me—need be—no concern of ours. These were matters to which he never referred. Judith and I might have our own ideas on the subject, we might even have knowledge which he never suspected; but until he spoke, it seemed to me, that there was—no necessity—for us to speak. Our friend Alfred obviously valued the hospitality which we were so glad to offer him. That was enough for us.

"But things happen. The curse, and the charm, of human life in two words—things happen!

"When our friend Alfred suddenly became earmarked for—promotion—high promotion—I had to admit to myself that the situation was, at once, materially changed. So long as our friend Alfred was a person of only—minor importance—his visits to us might, it seemed to me, fairly be considered—merely his own affair, and ours. But when he became a person of—the first importance—of the first importance in greater issues than he appears, as yet, to have realized, his frequent visits here involved me—in a grave responsibility, to which I could not shut my eyes. A reckless young man, our friend Alfred. He did incredible things. He took amazing risks. I had to reconsider the whole position. I will not trouble you with an analysis of my conflicting motives. Ultimately I took action. I wrote a letter.

"It was plain James Bond who wrote that letter—just as it is plain James Bond who is speaking at this moment. Somehow, he seems to have lost sight of his part of 'Chorus'! 'Cynthia' did not contribute a single phrase to the letter. It must have been a good letter, I think. It had an immediate result. Within less than twenty-four hours it brought a very busy, and distinguished man from town down here into our quiet backwater to see us."

"The Duke," Uncle Bond acknowledged. "Let there be no mistake about my position, at the outset, my boy. I am a partisan of the Duke!

"The Duke and I had some talk, but he spent most of his time with Judith, and the Imps. Judith—liked him. The Imps—took to him. We gave him tea. When he left he was good enough to say that I had given him a pleasure extremely rare in the experience of an old man. I had introduced him to four new friends! He said other agreeable things. But the most important thing he said, perhaps, was that, with certain precautionary measures taken, which he himself would arrange, he saw no reason why—the gates of Paradise should be shut on a younger, and more fortunate visitor than himself.

"My dear boy, I have always liked your reckless audacity. I sympathize heartily with you in your distaste for police surveillance. But that you should consistently give the police the slip, and career about here, alone in your car, when the men responsible for your safety believed that you were fast asleep, in bed, in town—in the present state of the country, the risks, for you, for us, were altogether too great. Think what our position would have been if anything had happened to you! But for some time past, from the day of the Duke's visit to us, those risks have been avoided. Scotland Yard have been on their mettle. They have never lost sight of you. When I went downstairs, just before lunch, I found half a dozen plain clothes men making themselves comfortable in the kitchen. They have grown quite at home with us. And today they tell me, special precautions are being taken. A battalion of the Guards, I understand, is to put a picket line round the house. My dear boy, restrain your impatience! You will not see them. The police have strict orders never to intrude their presence upon you. The military, I have no doubt, will have similar orders. From the first, the Duke has been as anxious—as any of us—that you should continue to enjoy the full benefits of your incognito, here, in Paradise.

"And that brings me, having finished my own explanations, to the explanation which I am so eager to demand from you, in turn, my boy. How did the Duke contrive that you should come here, in the present crisis—they told me downstairs that Martial Law has been proclaimed!—without betraying the fact that he had been here himself?"

All the King's senses had been numbed by the rapid succession of surprises with which Uncle Bond had attacked him. His capacity for wonder had long since been exhausted. It seemed to him now that nothing would ever surprise him again. A feeling of utter helplessness oppressed him. It seemed to him that he was in the grip, that he had been made the plaything, of an implacable, an irresistible power. But Uncle Bond's question served to arouse a momentary flash of his old self-assertion within him. He had been deceived, he had been managed, he had been fooled to the top of his bent—but, in this matter, at any rate, he had asserted himself; in this matter, at any rate, he had had his own way.

"The Duke did not contrive that I should come here," he exclaimed. "I chose to come here. It was—my way of going on strike."

"You startled me by saying something like that before, my boy," Uncle Bond remarked. "What do you mean, precisely, by—your way of going on strike?"

"The whole trouble is a strike. The Labour people have called a universal, lightning strike from twelve noon, today," the King explained impatiently. "The Duke says a little company of revolutionary extremists are behind it all. They want to run up the Red Flag. I told the Duke that if there was one man in the whole country who was justified in striking, in leaving his work, it seemed to me, I was that man. And I said I would come here. Coming here was my way of going on strike."

"Are you quite sure that the Duke did not contrive that you should come here, my boy?" he persisted.

A doubt was at once born in the King's mind. The Duke had offered no opposition whatever to his reckless excursion. The Duke had accepted his rebellion. The Duke had encouraged him to leave the palace—

"The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or to Sandringham, in the first place, I think. But—I daresay he was quite willing that I should come here," he muttered.

"In the circumstances, you could hardly have a quieter, a more unexpected, and so, a safer, retreat," Uncle Bond remarked.

"My Carlyle quotation was even more apposite than I realized, my boy," he crowed. "It seems to me that you have done your best—to commit suicide! But your experience will be similar to that of Fritz the First, of Prussia. They will cut the rope. The Duke must be busy cutting the rope now—

"This strike will collapse, of course—quickly. It must have been an unexpected move; a last desperate throw by the foreign agitators who have failed to produce more serious trouble. Everybody, who is anybody, has known, for months, that there was trouble brewing. All sorts of wild rumours from the Continent have been current in the Clubs. But an attempt at armed rebellion was the common idea. It has been talked about so much that most people, I daresay, have ceased to take it too seriously. They will be surprised. But the Duke would not be surprised. Everything is proceeding in accordance with plan! Things have a way of proceeding in accordance with plan, with the Duke—

"What a story 'Cynthia' could make out of it all! 'The King Who Went on Strike!' A good title for the bookstalls! But the best stories can never be written—"

Leaning back in his chair as he spoke, the little man turned away from the luncheon table, and looked out through the open windows, on his left, at the sunlit wooded landscape, beyond the garden.

"It is strange, when you come to think of it, that you and I should be sitting here, in peace and quietness, my boy, when there is uproar and tumult, perhaps, when great events are shaping themselves, perhaps, over there, beyond our wooded skyline," he murmured. "Does it not seem strange—to you?"

Mechanically the King swung round in his chair, and looked out, through the windows, in turn—

Almost at once, his eyes were drawn away, to the sunlit garden below, by a charming little interlude which was enacted there.

Bareheaded, and dressed in white, suddenly, round the side of the house, came Judith, slender and tall, her beautiful vivid face rosy with the touch of the harvest sun. On her shoulder, skilfully supported in her upstretched arms, sat Bill, with his eyes closed, nodding his cherub's head, heavy with sleep. Beside her trotted Button, animated, vivacious.

In Button's clear, young voice, the words of the song became audible in the room—

"And does it not seem hard to you,
"When all the sky is clear and blue,
"And I should like so much to play,
"To have to go bed by day?"

A moment later, tightening her hold on Bill, Judith stepped up on to the verandah and, followed by Button, disappeared from view, into the house.

Sauntering across the lawn, Judith headed for the belt of trees at the far end of the garden.

Beyond the trees, in the furthest corner of the garden, stood a small summer house, which commanded a magnificent view of the surrounding landscape. For the sake of this view, the summer house was a favourite retreat of Judith's.

Judith disappeared, with a final flicker of her white dress, behind the trees, at the far end of the garden.

Uncle Bond had risen to his feet, and had thrown a white cloth over the luncheon table. He crossed the room now to his writing table, sat down deliberately, and picked up his pencil.

"You are going to join Judith, in the garden, my boy?" he remarked. "That is right. Judith will be surprised—and glad—to see you. I am about to revert to 'Cynthia.' I have only one thing more to say to you—now. Thomas Carlyle! Do not forget in Judith's, or in your own excitement, that they will—'cut the rope!' That is certain. You cannot afford to forget that fact, in your dealings with any of us, my boy—least of all can you afford to forget it, in your dealings with Judith."

The King opened his lips to speak; thought better of it, and closed them again; and then—hurried out of the room.

t was an urgent, blind necessity that was laid upon him, rather than any action of his own will, which had hurried the King out of Uncle Bond's writing room. None the less, now, as he descended the staircase in the silent house, crossed the hall, and so passed out into the bright afternoon sunshine in the garden, he was not altogether unconscious of the motives which were driving him, in this strange way, to Judith. He wanted to see Judith alone. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to explain things to her. And, most of all, he wanted Judith to explain—things which only she could explain—to him—

A few minutes of rapid walking led him across the lawn, in amongst the trees, at the far end of the garden. A narrow path ran, through the trees, to the little clearing beyond, in which the summer house stood. He followed this path.

The green shade of the trees was welcome after the glare of the sunlight on the lawn. A breeze rustled amongst the overhanging leaves. Hidden away, somewhere, high up amongst the tree tops, a couple of jays chattered raucously in the sultry stillness.

In a minute or two, the King caught a glimpse, through the trees, of the picturesque, crudely thatched roof of the summer house.

Judith was sitting in a wicker work chair, at the entrance to the summer house, with her hands lying idle, for once, on her lap, gazing at the superb panorama of green fields, and wooded heights, which lay spread out before her in the sunshine.

A smile flickered about Judith's lips. The play of thought across her beautiful, vivid face reminded the King of the play of light and shade across some sunny hillside. He had never seen Judith alone with her own thoughts, like this, before. A kind of awe stole over him as he watched her. And yet, he soon grew impatient, and jealous, of these thoughts of Judith's, which he could not share.

Stepping back, in under the trees, he trod, with intention, on a broken branch which lay on the paths at his feet.

The snapping of the branch served to recall Judith to her immediate surroundings.

The rosy flush which the harvest sun had put into her cheeks deepened. Her dark, mysterious eyes lit up marvellously.

"Alfred—you!" she cried. "I was just thinking about you. And I had no idea you were so near!"

A feeling of guilt oppressed the King. The shining happiness, the radiant trust, of Judith's face smote him like a rebuke.

Quite unconsciously, he used the same words which he had used with Uncle Bond; but he used them now with a difference. With Uncle Bond the words had been a challenge. To Judith, he offered them as an apology.

A shadow obscured the radiance of Judith's face; but her glance did not waver. It was as if she were meeting something for which she had long been prepared.

A constraint that had no parallel in his experience held the King silent for a long minute or two.

"I have been here—sometime," he began desperately. "I have been—upstairs with Uncle Bond. I have just had lunch with him in his room. Uncle Bond has explained—a good many things to me. I saw you come here from the window. I followed you at once. I had to follow you. I hardly know why. Was it because there are—things between us which only you can explain?"

Judith knew nothing of all that had happened, of course. Until she knew—something of all that had happened—of what use was his talk? If only he could tell her—something of what had happened—she might be able to begin to understand the bewilderment, and turmoil, within his overwrought, fevered brain. That she should be able to understand, that she should be able to sympathize with him, had become, at the moment, his paramount need.

"Things have happened," he resumed desperately. "Things have happened that you know nothing about, I think. Queer things are happening, over there, at this moment!"

He half turned from her, as he spoke, and pointed across the sunlit landscape, at the distant, wooded horizon.

"Martial Law has been proclaimed. The Labour people are making trouble. They have called a universal strike. A few of them want to get rid of me, and run up the Red Flag. They haven't a chance, of course. The Duke is there. I know that you know the Duke! He was ready for them. He will be glad, I think, that they have given him this chance to crush them. Uncle Bond had a message from the Duke, waiting for me, when I arrived, to say that everything was—'proceeding in accordance with plan.' His plan!

"The Duke wanted me to go to Windsor, or to Sandringham, to be out of the way of possible trouble. I said I'd come here. I told him, that it seemed to me, that if there was one man, in the whole country, who would be justified in striking, in leaving his work, I was that man. I told him that I'd go on strike too. Coming here was my way of going on strike. I thought that I was asserting myself. I thought that I was showing that I was a man. All the time I was simply playing into the Duke's hands, of course. The Duke would be quite content that I should come here, I think. He knows that I can't get into any mischief here. He has seen to that! Uncle Bond tells me that there are half a dozen plain clothes men in the kitchen. Did you know that? A battalion of the Guards is to put a picket line round the house, too. At first I—resented the Duke's arrangements. Now, somehow, I don't seem to care—

"So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, I have been through so much, I don't seem to have any will, any feeling, any personality left. My own thoughts, my own words, my own actions seem to me, now—like the disjointed pieces of a jig-saw puzzle, which I shall never be able to put together again. I don't know—where I am. I don't know—where I stand. I am all at sea. The bottom seems, suddenly, to have dropped out of everything. I have been humoured, managed, controlled, all through. I can see that. Now, I am—just like a derelict ship. The rudder has gone. The charts are lost. I am being driven, this way and that, at the mercy of—everybody's will, but my own—

"Somehow, you are my only hope. Somehow, I feel that you will understand me—better than I understand myself. I suppose that that means that I love you. You know that. And I know that you love me. There can be no doubt about that, after last night. And yet, somehow, even that doesn't excite me now. It doesn't seem to mean—what I suppose it ought to mean—to me. Why doesn't it mean—more to me? I am trying to tell you the truth, so far as I can see it. I am sick of mystery. I am utterly weary of deceit. It seems to me, that—our only hope is—plain speaking—"

All this time, Judith had remained motionless, and quiescent, in her chair. She turned, now, a little towards the King. Her expression was grave, but friendly.

"I want you to sit down, Alfred," she said quietly. "Find another chair, and bring it out here. When you sit down, I will talk to you. I want to talk to you."

The King swung round into the summer house, and brought out another chair. Placing it beside Judith's, he sat down. Then he fixed his eyes upon her face.

"I am glad that you have said, what you have said, Alfred," Judith began. "I have wanted you to give me your confidence, the whole of your confidence, for so long. I have always understood, I think, why you have been silent—about so many things. But I wanted you—to trust me. Now—you have trusted me—

"I agree with you that the time has come for plain speaking. I am glad that it has come. I will speak as plainly as I can."

"First of all, you are not a derelict, Alfred. You are more like—a ship that has not found herself. You know what happens on a trial trip? The ship has not found herself. The Captain, and the crew, have got to get to know her. She ships the sea. Bolts and plates stretch and strain. Queer things happen in the engine room. And then, suddenly, all in a moment, the ship finds herself, rights herself. You will be—like that. Your trial trip has been run in a storm. You have been plunged, at the start into hurricane weather. But you will find yourself, right yourself. And, when your moment comes, you will sail the seas with any craft afloat.

"But that is—politics! And you, and I, are not really greatly interested in politics, are we? What we are really interested in is—ourselves—our own intimacy, our own relationship. When you say that you don't know where you are, where you stand, what you mean, at the back of your mind, is that you don't know where we are, and where we stand. I will tell you where I stand. If I tell you where I stand, you will be able to see—your own position. I will speak, as plainly as I can, about myself—"

Judith paused there, as if she wished to marshal her thoughts, and fit them with words.

The King kept his eyes fixed upon her face. His instinct had been right. Judith understood him, better than he understood himself. Already, he was conscious that the tumult within him was subsiding. Judith, with her clear eyes, and sure touch, would disentangle the mingled threads of their strange destiny, rearrange them, and put them straight.

"First of all, I want you to understand that I know that there can be no change in, no development, no outcome of—our friendship," Judith resumed slowly. "And I want you to know that I am—content that it should be so. My life has been full of—much that many women miss. I had Jack, my husband. I have the Imps. I have Uncle Bond. And I have—you.

"Your—friendship—has become very precious to me, Alfred. When you first came here, I liked you, I think, because you reminded me of Jack. It was the sea, and the Navy, of course. The sea, and the Navy, mark a man, don't they? They give him a certain style, and stamp. But that was only a superficial, surface resemblance, of course. I had not known you very long before I realized that you were quite unlike Jack.

"Jack was simple, a boy, a dear. He was a splendid man, physically. At sea, he could sail anything that would float. He had no idea of fear. He did his duty. He obeyed orders. He never questioned anything. Life to him was always plain and straightforward. He always saw his way, like the course of his ship, clear before him. He never had a real trouble, or doubt. He was happy, even in his death. You know how he led the destroyers into action, and sank an enemy ship, before he went down himself? I—loved him. But I loved him, as I love the Imps. When he was at home, on shore, with me, I used to feel that I had three boys to look after—

"You are different. Your mind works all the time. You doubt, you question, everything. You see all round things to which Jack would never have given a thought. Your brain is always active—too active. Life to you is always complex, puzzling. You live more, and harder, in a day, in your brain, than Jack did in a year. It was when I began to understand what was going on in the brain, behind your tired blue eyes, that I learnt—to love you. Jack had no imagination. You have—too much imagination. I loved Jack. But you—you could carry me off my feet—

"That is just what happened last night. I want you to understand about last night, Alfred. It is important that you should understand about last night, I think. A good deal of your trouble, of your bewilderment, and uncertainty, today, is because of last night, I believe. And it may—happen again.

"I have always been very careful with you—until last night. I know that I—attract you. At one time, I was afraid that that might interfere with, that it might spoil, our friendship. But, as I came to know you better, as I came to understand the hold, the control, you have over yourself, I began to realize that it was not you, but myself, that I had to fear. I was very careful. I watched myself. And then, last night, after all, I failed you—

"But you had just been Crowned! And, after your Coronation, after all that you had been through, you got away, as soon as you could, to come and see me! That in itself was—a tribute—which no woman could have resisted, I think. And you were different. Your Coronation has made a difference, Alfred. And you were wearing the King's colours. You remember that? And you talked about the King needing all his friends. And, somehow, just for the moment, I wanted you to trust me, to give me the whole of your confidence. I have always wanted your confidence. And then—I was afraid. And I took you in to the Imps for safety. And their crowns were there. And I couldn't resist playing with fire. And you picked up Button's crown. And I felt all your thought—bitter, ironic, painful thoughts. I am much more responsive to your moods than you realize, I think. And I wanted to comfort you. And I looked at you. And you saw what I felt—

"It was just as if I had said, all the things which we have always left unsaid, wasn't it? It was just as if I had shouted aloud, all the things which we have always been so careful to ignore. It—troubled you—then. It troubles you still. It will be a long time, before I shall be able to forgive myself, for what happened last night—

"I have always wanted to help you, to serve you, to make things easier for you, you see—not to add to your difficulties. But we have helped you, Uncle Bond, and I, and the Imps, haven't we! It has been good for you to come here, to us, in Paradise, for rest, and quiet, and peace, hasn't it? There is an old fairy story about a man who was haunted by his shadow, that the Imps are very fond of, that I have always connected with you, in my own mind. You are haunted by your shadow, aren't you? You are haunted by the shadow of your rank, of your position, of your responsibility. But you have always been able to forget your shadow here with us—until last night—haven't you? It has always been waiting for you, when you went away in the morning, you picked it up again in the lane, on your way back to town, I know. But, while you were here, you never saw your shadow, until last night, did you?"

"It has always been just like that," the King murmured. "With you, I have always been able to live, in the present moment—"

"But I am not going to talk any more now," she said. "I must go in. The Imps will be awake by now. But I shan't bring them out here. I want you to rest. I promised the Duke, that I would see that you got as much rest as possible, whenever you came here. I—like the Duke. He—cares more for you—than you realize, Alfred, I think. You will try to rest now, won't you? How much sleep have you had in the last twenty-four hours? Three hours, last night? You are too reckless. I am not surprised the King's physician is turning grey. The Duke told me that. You can't stay up on the bridge indefinitely. You will find that you will be able to sleep now—after all my plain speaking! Are you comfortable in that chair? Let me give you this cushion—"

"I treat you, just as if you were one of my boys, don't I?" she said. "I know you like it. But I do it—in self-defence."

His action, like so many of his actions, was quite impulsive. But he did not regret it.

In what other way could he have expressed so well, his admiration, his gratitude, his renewed trust?

Then, suddenly, she leant down over him, and kissed him, lightly, on the forehead.

"I kissed you like that, last night, when you were asleep," she said, with an odd, breathless, little catch in her voice.

A great drowsiness took possession of the King. He did not resist it. He gave himself up to it gladly—

His instinct had served him well. Judith understood him, better than he understood himself. Judith was right. She was always right. The larger part of his trouble, it seemed to him, now, had been, as she said, his bewilderment, his uncertainty, as to where he and she stood. Now that Judith had defined their position—as plainly as it could be defined with safety—a great burden seemed to have been lifted from his mind. Judith understood him. Nothing else mattered. Other things—could not touch him here in Paradise. Other things—could wait.

The bright, afternoon sun was shining full on to the little clearing, throwing no shadow—

He had slept so deeply, and so long, it was a minute or two, before he fully regained consciousness.

"Lazy, lazy, slug-a-bed, Uncle Alfred," Bill chanted. "'Bed by daytime' was over—ever so long ago. We've been making the hay, the whole afternoon. And you've been asleep all the time, you poor, tired dear. But mother said we could wake you now."

A sudden tenderness, for the shining innocence of the little fellow's smiling face, gripped the King.

Then he set him down on his feet again, and turning—saw Button, on the other side of his chair.

"Wonderful harvest weather, this we're having," Button remarked. "But, if it's good for the hay, it's bad for the roots. We want rain for the roots, there's no denying."

"Were you in the procession, Uncle Alfred?" he cried. "Mother told us about it. Did you see the King? Did you wear your sword? Did the people cheer?"

"Tell us about the flags, and the 'luminations, and the fireworks," Bill demanded, joining in, in the little hurricane of questions. "Mother says the King rode in his coach. Why didn't he ride on one of his horses? Did he wear his crown in the coach? Is his crown heavy?"

"Mother says the King is quite young. That is funny, isn't it?" Button predominated. "All the Kings in the fairy stories are old, old men, with long, white beards. Do you think he likes being King? Mother says he has to work very hard, that he can't do just what he likes, and please himself, that he always has to think—first of England, and never of himself. That doesn't sound as if he had much fun, does it?"

By this time, the King's dormant ironic sense had been most effectively aroused. He was amused? Yes. But more than one of the youngsters' innocent shafts had reached home.

"Mother says the King was in the Navy, like you and our daddy, until they told him that he had to be King," Button continued. "Daddy died in battle, you know. But it isn't sad. Mother has his medals. When I grow up, I'm to have his sword, and go into the Navy, too. Mother says it's the King's Service. When Bill is big enough, mother says he'll be as big as I am some day, he's going into the Navy, too. He'll be in the King's Service, too. But I'm to have daddy's sword, because I'm the eldest."

"You will tell us all about the King, and his procession, and the 'luminations, and the fireworks, won't you, dear?" he coaxed.

"Some day—perhaps I will," the King said. "But it is a long, and a difficult story, and it—isn't finished yet. I don't think the King likes being King, very much, though. Mother is right. He—can't do just what he likes. He hasn't been King very long—but he has learnt that, already. Perhaps, I don't know, he may learn, if he has the chance, in time, to think—first of England, and never of himself. He doesn't have much fun. I know that. His crown is—heavier than he likes. He was very tired of it all, yesterday, I know. He didn't see—much of his own procession. He saw the flags, and the crowds, and he heard the cheers. Yes. The people cheered! And he bowed, and smiled, and played his part. But I don't think he enjoyed it very much. I think he was—rather afraid of it all, in his own heart. He didn't wear his sword. They won't let the King fight, nowadays, you see. He has to let other men—brave men like your daddy—fight for him. He—doesn't like that! That is why it is better to be in the King's Service, in the Navy, as you are going to be, when you grow tall enough, than to be—the King—"

"Didn't they let him sit up to see the 'luminations, and the fireworks?" Bill asked, surprised, and puzzled.

"Yes. They let him sit up to see them," the King acknowledged hastily. "And there were illuminated aeroplanes over the palace. And "God Save the King," and "God Save King Alfred the Second," in letters of fire, on all the houses—"

The King frowned. He understood, suddenly, he thought, why Judith had sent the Imps to wake him. The Imps were protection, safety. Judith was right, of course. It was wise of her to take such precautions—in self-defence. And yet, somehow, at the moment, he resented her wisdom.

"You have had a good sleep, Alfred," Judith said, smiling pleasantly, as she halted beside him. "It is nearly six o'clock now. We came, and looked at you, at tea-time, but you were so fast asleep, it seemed a shame to wake you."

The King's resentment fell from him. He felt ashamed of himself. It was of him, and not of herself—did she ever think of herself?—that Judith had been thinking.

"Uncle Alfred has been telling us about the King, mother," Button explained. "He says he doesn't think the King likes being King very much. He can't do what he likes, just as you said. They won't let him wear his sword even, and he can't fight for himself. He has to let other people fight for him. I'm glad I'm not King. I'd rather be a sailor, and wear daddy's sword."

The King put Bill down off his knee, and stood up hastily, glad to avoid, in this way, meeting Judith's glance—

Always, in the evening, between tea and dinner, Judith joined them, in the garden, in a riotous frolic.

And so, with Button urging Judith forward, and Bill spurring the King on, remorselessly, with his heels, the race began.

Ultimately, going all out across the lawn, Bill, on the King, won by a short length.

Whether Bill, or the King, was the more delighted at this success, it would have taken a very acute observer to judge.

In the ensuing hour, the King found himself called upon to play a variety of parts, which would have made exhaustive demands upon the resources of the most experienced quick-change artist.

A Wild Beast in the trees, Man Friday, a Red Indian, a Cannibal King, and a Policeman, were amongst his more prominent rôles. Flinging himself into the spirit of the play, with a gusto which he caught, in part, from Judith, he entirely forgot himself.

The Imps' laughter rang out, blithe and free, through the garden, and about the house. Whenever their interest, or their energy failed, Judith was quick with some delectable proposal, unlimited in resource. With all their unspoilt imagination, Button and Bill were hard put to it, at times, to keep pace with the whims of their radiant, laughing mother. Judith played with all the abandon of a child, directed by the intellect of an adult. To the King this combination was irresistible. He had no thought now apart from the present moment.

Once only, were he and Judith alone together. It was in the course of a wild game of hide and seek with which the play ended. It was their turn to hide. Quite by chance, they sought the same cover—a large rhododendron bush in the drive. They crouched together, behind the bush, side by side.

"I think that it must have been, although I didn't know it," the King muttered. "I expect it was my own fault—but I was lonely. I knew, I think we all knew—that we were not like other children. It wasn't until I went to sea that—I was able to forget that I was a Prince!"

"Poor, lonely, little Prince!" Judith murmured. "But when he went to sea, he was happy?"

"The sea knocked a lot of nonsense out of me," the King replied. "At sea, a man is a man, and nothing else. When I had learnt that, I was happy."

A rich content, a sense of absolute well-being, was with the King now. Was it not always so, when he had been with Judith, and the Imps? The bewilderment, the turmoil, and the fever, which had raged within him, only a few hours ago, seemed very far away.

Insensibly—had Judith contrived it?—he had stepped into the quiet old inn of "Content," on the corner of the market-place. He had turned his back on—the procession—on the fight in the market-place. He would keep his back turned to them. He would not even risk the window view.

Here, a surprise awaited him. Laid out in the room were evening clothes. On the dressing-table were familiar toilet trifles from the palace.

This, he realized, must have been the outcome of the old Duke's thoughtfulness. The Duke alone could have given the orders which had made this possible. That the Duke should have found time to attend to so trivial a matter, time to give orders to a valet to pack a bag, when he was giving orders to maintain a throne—it was almost ludicrous!

It was like the Duke, to remind him, to assure him, in this way, that he, the King, was of importance, that he was being served, well served, in small matters, as well as in great. Something of the sort must have been in the old Duke's mind, when he gave the orders, which had provided him, the King, with a dress shirt—and studs!—now, when he wanted them—

No doubt, some member of the palace household staff, Smith perhaps, had been sent down, specially, from the palace, with these things, during the afternoon. Like the police, and the military, he would have been given orders to remain invisible. That was as it should be. A valet would have been out of place in Paradise. Alfred, the sailor, would be entitled to a servant, of course. But he would hardly accompany him on—"a short leave of absence"—

He was glad to think, as he dressed leisurely, that he would appear suitably clad at Judith's table.

small , panelled room, on the left of the hall, and on the west side of the house, the dining room was bright with the light of the setting sun, as the King entered. Late as he was himself, he was surprised to find that only Judith was there to receive him. She was standing at the window doors, which opened out of the room onto the verandah, gazing at the flaming glory of the sunset sky. Wearing a silver gown, that had a metallic glitter, which gave her something of a barbaric splendour, she seemed, at the moment, almost a stranger to the King. But she turned to welcome him with her usual friendly little nod, and smile.

"It will be no use our waiting for Uncle Bond," she announced. "He may be here, in a minute or two. Or he may not come for half an hour, or more. 'Cynthia' may have got a firm grip on him, you see. Uncle Bond, or perhaps I ought to say 'Cynthia,' hates being interrupted for meals. I never wait for him."

Sitting down at the foot of the dinner table, as she spoke, she waved the King into his place, on her right, facing the open window doors, and the view of the garden, and of the wooded landscape beyond, which they framed.

"I hope 'Cynthia' has got a firm grip on Uncle Bond," she went on. "I shall have you all to myself, then. You ought to have said that, you know. But you never make pretty speeches. That is why I said it for you."

"Why not? Just for once?" Judith replied. "Why shouldn't we play at them, like a game with the Imps? Shall I begin? I will give you an opening. Do you like my dress? And my hair? I dressed for you. I know you like me, of course. But there are times, when a woman likes to be told—what she knows!"

The King was surprised, and not a little embarrassed. This was not the Judith he had expected. This was not the Judith of the afternoon. This was that other strange, dangerous Judith, of the night before. She had warned him that—it might happen again. True. But he had never imagined that it would happen again, so soon—

The entrance of the light-footed parlour-maid, in neat black, who was responsible for the service of the meal, at that moment, covered the King's silent confusion.

So long as the maid was in the room only trivial surface conversation was possible.

The King compelled himself to play his necessary, outward social part. But he was uneasily aware, all the time, inwardly, that Judith had noticed his embarrassment and that she was likely to resume her unexpected attack at the first opportunity. His intuition proved correct; but only partially correct. Judith was quick to take advantage of the first of the maid's temporary absences from the room to return to more intimate talk. But she struck, at once, a quieter, graver note.

"What is it, Alfred?" she asked. "Do I trouble you? I am sorry. It was selfish of me. I knew that I was playing with fire, of course. But—a woman grows tired of leaving everything unsaid."

Her implied appeal, and her insistence on her feminine weakness—a thing unprecedented in her!—moved the King. He felt ashamed of his own caution.

What was the use of evasion? Had not Judith and he agreed that plain speaking was their only hope? Judith had spoken plainly enough. The least he could do was to speak plainly, too. And, suddenly, at the back of his mind, now, were thoughts, which he had never suspected in himself, clamouring for expression,—

"But I haven't the right!" he exclaimed. "I haven't any right to be here, really. I see that now. I am in an utterly false position. I ought not to be here. I ought not to have come here, as I have done. It was not fair—to either of us. It was asking too much of—both of us. Why haven't I seen that before? I shut my eyes to it, deliberately, I am afraid. It was a mistake. It has been a mistake all through. I have been absolutely selfish. I have thought only of myself. It is only right that I should have to pay for my mistake. But the payment is all on your side. It has been give, give, give, all the time, on your side. And take, take, take, all the time, on mine. And I can make no return—"

"The giving all on our side! You have made no return!" Judith cried. "It isn't true, Alfred. You know it isn't true! But, even if it were true—a woman loves a man who allows her to give to him."

"Isn't that just the trouble?" the King exclaimed, exasperated by the conflict of feeling within him into a flash of unusual insight.

The little man had not dressed for dinner. He was still wearing his usual, loose-fitting shooting clothes.

"You will excuse my clothes, I know, my boy," he remarked as he slipped into his place, at the head of the table. "It has taken me all my time to get here at all. I have just had a violent quarrel, upstairs, with 'Cynthia.' I told her that you were here to dinner today, that you were an honoured guest, and that I wished to show you proper attention. She told me to get on with my work. I told her that I would not be hag-ridden—that caught her on the raw!—that she was merely my familiar spirit, not my master. Then I slammed the door on her. And here we are!"

It was difficult to resist Uncle Bond's chuckling good-humour. The King found himself smiling at the little man's characteristic nonsense, almost in spite of himself.

Judith appeared to be really piqued by Uncle Bond's entrance. As the meal proceeded, she became increasingly silent. An obtuser man than Uncle Bond must have become quickly conscious that something was wrong. From the mischievous twinkle which shone in the little man's sparkling eyes, the King judged that Uncle Bond was only too well aware of the tension that had sprung up, so unexpectedly, between Judith and himself.

Oddly enough, Uncle Bond did nothing to relieve the situation. The little man was, or affected to be, very hungry. Setting himself, ably seconded by the parlour-maid, to make good the courses which had already been served, he confined his attention, almost entirely to his plate.

The meal went forward, for some time, in these circumstances, with a minimum of talk, which was not far removed from dumb show.

The broad rays of the setting sun were shining full into the room now through the open window doors immediately facing the King. In the awkward, recurring silences at the table, his eyes turned, again and again, to the window doors, and the superb landscape which they framed.

Field and wood, winding road, and blossoming hedgerow, cottage and farm, lay, peaceful and serene, spread out there, before him, in the bright, evening light.

Engrossed in his own thoughts, absorbed by his own emotions, he had entirely forgotten the crisis.

Was everything still proceeding in accordance with plan? Why had he not heard from the Duke? Had not the Duke said that he would be communicating with him?

What right had he to be sitting there, in peace and quietness, when there was uproar and tumult, perhaps, when great events were shaping themselves, perhaps, over there, beyond the wooded skyline?

The Duke had urged him to leave the palace. The Duke had urged him to seek a retreat, an asylum, out of the way of possible trouble.

And yet, here again, by his own act, had he not placed himself—in an utterly false position?

At last, the parlour-maid put the decanters on the table, and withdrew, finally, from the room.

"I see no reason why we should not drink our usual toast, Judith," he said. "On the contrary, I think there is every reason why we should drink it, tonight—

He set his glass down again on the table, now with a shaking hand, and sank back into his chair. Then, hardly conscious of what he was doing, he bowed, first to Judith, and then to Uncle Bond. He could not see their faces. There was a mist before his eyes—

Their usual toast. They drank it nightly, then, thinking of him. For them it had a special, personal meaning. With them it was not only a pledge of loyalty. With them it was a pledge of affection, too.

Judith and Uncle Bond would not be alone in drinking the toast that evening. All over the world, wherever men and women, of the true English stock, were gathered together, would not the toast be drunk, that evening, with a special enthusiasm, a special meaning? Not with the special, personal meaning, the special, personal affection, with which Judith and Uncle Bond had drunk it. That was outside the question. The toast was a bigger thing than any personal affection, than any personal feeling. It was a bigger thing than—any King—

Had not his own pulse quickened, had not his blood flowed more quickly through his veins, at the words? They had acted upon him like the call of a trumpet. To what?

What did the words stand for? For the biggest things. For England, loyalty, patriotism, for ideals of service, personal, and national. No man or woman drinking the toast thought and felt precisely as any other man or woman standing beside them. But they were all united, all their varied thoughts, and ideals, and emotions were linked together by the words.

And he—the King—was the recognized, the accredited, figurehead, of all their varied thoughts, ideals, emotions.

Was not this the reason, that he might serve as a link between the varied ideals of all his people, that the King, his father, had been content to live a man apart, isolated, lonely, remote? Was it not for this that his brother, the Prince, had prepared himself, sacrificing himself, never sparing himself?

A new resolve, or something as near akin to a new resolve as he dare venture upon, in his new distrust, his new contempt, for himself, was registered by the King, at that moment.

If the old Duke "cut the rope"—and the old Duke would, he must "cut the rope"—he, the King, would shape the course of his life, differently—

It was not, he realized, that these were new thoughts with him. They were, rather, thoughts which had lurked, until now, at the back of his mind, overlaid by that preoccupation with himself, by that thinking first of himself, which given the chance, given the time, it would be his business, now, to alter—

The shutting of the door, behind him, at this point, startled the King out of his reverie.

Looking round, he found that Judith had left the table, and slipped quietly out of the room.

Uncle Bond selected a long, and formidable looking cheroot, lit it, and then leaning back in his chair, began to talk.

"I would give a good deal to be able to read your thoughts, my boy," he remarked. "Perhaps I can read—some of them! If it were not for the bond of friendship between us, I should be tempted to regard you as a most fascinating psychological study. Your position, the circumstances in which you find yourself, at the moment are—unique. And you are becoming conscious of that, and of many other things, unless I am much mistaken. Our little comedy is drawing to its close, I fancy. Meanwhile, shall we share our thoughts? Or do you feel that silence is as essential, as it is said to be golden?"

The King hesitated, for a moment. His recent thoughts could be shared with no one—not even with Uncle Bond, not even with Judith—

Then, as he looked up, in his perplexity, his eyes were caught by the landscape, framed in the open window doors, in front of him. Instinctively, he fell back upon his earlier thoughts, of what was happening over there, beyond the wooded skyline, of why he had not heard from the Duke.

"I have been wondering what is happening over there," he said, indicating the far horizon with a gesture. "I begin to want to know what is happening. The Duke said he would be communicating with me, you know. I suppose you haven't heard from the Duke again?"

"No. I have not heard from the Duke," Uncle Bond replied. "But no news is good news, in this case, my boy, I am certain. My own idea is that the Duke will send no message until—everything has proceeded 'in accordance with plan'—until he has, definitely, 'cut the rope.' Then, and not until then, I think we may expect to see him here, in person."

The King was silent. He was conscious that he would be ready for, that he would be glad to see, the Duke, when he came.

"Our intimacy is, I think, nearing its end. Or, if it is not nearing its end, it is approaching a time when it will be, inevitably, changed," he remarked. "Ours has been a strange association, my boy. But I am glad to think that it has been as pleasant, as it has been strange. It has been so to Judith, and to myself. And to you? You have enjoyed the hospitality which we have been so glad to offer you. And we have been able to do you some service—a greater service, perhaps, than we ever intended, a greater service, perhaps, than you, as yet, realize.

"We shall not see as much of you, in the near future, I fancy, as we have done, in the past. Probably, we shall see less of you. Probably, a time will come when your very welcome visits here will cease altogether. But, I am glad to think, you will not be able to forget us. We shall always have a place in your memory—a place of our own—a place like no one else's. As the years go by, you will fill a more and more important, a more and more distinguished position. But you will not forget us. You will think of us gratefully.

"I want, Judith and I both want, your memory of us to be without regret, to be a wholly pleasant memory. A mental oasis, perhaps, of a kind useful to a man who is condemned to fill a conspicuous, and responsible position—in the procession. There has been nothing in our association which you, or we, can regret, thus far. Be on your guard, my boy. See to it, that nothing occurs, that any of us need regret, in retrospect—

"I have fallen into a bad habit of gravity with you, I observe. I seem to have taken to obtruding my advice upon you. The Heavy Father! This afternoon. And now, again, tonight. I apologize!

"And now I must revert to 'Cynthia'! We have had a wonderful day. You always bring me luck. But 'Cynthia,' when she once gets going is insatiable. I shall have to put in two or three more hours, with her, upstairs, tonight. We are thousands of words ahead of the time-table already. I shall be able to be idle for weeks after today. But there is a climax in the offing—a climax, a couple of pages ahead, which cannot wait. I must let it take its own course, shape itself, and get it down on to paper. It never pays to let a climax wait!"

The little man stood up, and leaving the table, crossed the room to the door. But, by the door, he paused.

"Judith, I see, is waiting for you, in the hall, my boy," he announced. "She will give you some music, I dare say. If you should happen to want me—I am upstairs."

In spite of Uncle Bond's announcement that Judith was waiting for him, the King lingered at the dinner table. Somehow, he did not wish—to be alone with Judith again. Was he afraid of her? Or of himself? He hardly knew. But he shrank instinctively from the ordeal. It would be an ordeal. The consequences, the inevitable consequences, of his false position, of his reckless self-indulgence, were closing about him—

The King had no cultivated taste in music. The rattling melodies of the wardroom piano, or gramophone, were his greatest pleasure. Like most people, where music was concerned, he was merely an animal, soothed or irritated, by noise.

In the hall, the shadows of the twilight were gathering fast. Judith's silver dress shone, obscurely luminous, in the far corner, where she was seated at the piano. She turned, and welcomed him with her friendly little nod, and went on playing.

The King sat down on the ottoman, at the foot of the staircase. It was the furthest distance that he could keep from Judith.

Judith played on, passing from one melody to another, playing throughout from memory, odd movements, and the music of songs, all soft and low, and all, it seemed, now, to the King, plaintive, sad.

Without a word, with the briefest possible glance in Judith's direction, he turned sharply round on his heel, and passed quickly up the staircase, to Uncle Bond's quarters.

"I have come—to place myself under arrest, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed. "I have come—to put myself into safe custody. I can't—trust myself."

Uncle Bond, busy at his writing table, laid down his pencil, and turned in his chair.

"Shut the door, my boy," he said. "I accept the responsibility you have offered me. It is a responsibility which I would have accepted before—but I did not care to interfere, between you and Judith, until it was offered to me."

"Fortunately, 'Cynthia' and I have just finished our climax," Uncle Bond chuckled. "I can blow out the candles, and devote myself to you."

"Sit down, my boy," he said. "Can you feel your way to the sofa? The moon rises late tonight. In this dubious, half light, we may be able to talk—at our ease."

The King found his way to the sofa, under the windows, without any difficulty, and sat down.

A dusky veil, which was not darkness, had been drawn over the room, when Uncle Bond blew out the candles. Outside the windows, there was still a luminous glow in the sky, where one or two stars shone palely. A couple of bats fluttered, to and fro, across the length of the windows. Some martins, settling down for the night, in their nests, under the eaves of the house, twittered excitedly—

"Shall we talk?" Uncle Bond asked suddenly. "I am ready to talk. And yet—I have no great faith in words. 'Cynthia' uses them. But plain James Bond has learnt their danger. After all, when an action speaks for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words."

It seemed to him, now, that he had already said enough, perhaps too much, when he had entered the room.

It was a soothing, sedative silence, which brought with it the first hush of night.

The little man drew out two or three blankets, from under the sofa, and threw them over the King.

Then he returned to the writing table, and sat down. But he did not relight his candles, and resume his work. He leant back in his chair, in an attitude of expectancy, as if he were waiting for somebody.

In a minute or two, the door behind him was opened, quietly, and Judith slipped into the room.

Judith halted behind the little man, and stood there, for some time in silence, gazing at the King's face, which was dimly visible in the light from the windows.

"Yes," Uncle Bond said. "When you remember the strain under which he has been running, you can hardly be surprised."

There was a short silence. Then Judith laid her hand on the little man's shoulder.

"It was—my fault, Uncle Bond," she whispered. "I—failed him. It has happened twice now. Last night was the first time. And tonight—he knew that it was going to happen again. I don't know—how it happened. It ought not to have happened—"

"It had to happen. It is a good thing that it has happened," Uncle Bond said quietly. "It was—the necessary climax. I have been expecting it. And now—it is over—

"It was a risk. It was a great risk. It was the risk," the little man went on, in a low, meditative tone. "But I trusted— him . It seemed to me that he could not fail. He comes of a good stock. The long line of men and women who lived, so that he might live, did not live in vain. Think of their restraint, their self-repression, their self-sacrifice—

"And we have been able to do him a service, a great service, a greater service than he realizes as yet. We have helped him through a difficult, and dangerous, period in his life. And you have shown him—of what stuff he is made. Instincts, and impulses, which, in him, have necessarily been insulated, and sternly suppressed, for years, have been brought into play. He knows now—of what stuff he is made.

"The future will be easier. I was telling him, tonight, that I do not think that we shall see so much of him, in the future. The time is coming when we shall see very little of him, I think. But he will not forget us. He will think of us with gratitude, with deepening gratitude, as the years go by. We shall have a place of our own in his memory. And there will be nothing in his memory, that he, or we, need regret—

"We shall miss him. He has come to fill a large place in all our lives. It has been a strange episode. That he should have wandered, by chance, into our quiet backwater; that we should have become implicated, through him, in great issues—that is strange. But it is only an episode. And it is nearly over now. And we—and you—would not have it otherwise?"

The night was very still. An owl called, eerily, from the garden. A dog barked in some distant farmyard.

At last, the little man rose to his feet, crossed to the sofa again, and stood looking down at the King's face which showed pallid, drawn, and, somehow, it seemed to him now, old, in the dim, half light.

For endless ages, as it seemed to him, watched all the time by a thousand flushed, curious faces, by a thousand eyes, he fled, down interminable corridors, across dark and desolate waste places, pursued, now by the old Duke of Northborough, now by Uncle Bond, and now by Judith. His feet were of lead. Time and again, he stumbled, and all but fell. His breath came in panting gusts. He reeled. His brain was on fire. And yet the chase continued, across continents, through dark, dank caves, along a dreary coast line, on the edge of precipices, by the side of angry seas—

The horror of it all was heightened by his knowledge that he was being pursued in error. Some inexplicable, mysterious misunderstanding between him, and his pursuers, accounted for the chase. They were pursuing him, hunting him down, mistakenly, full of a desire to serve him, to save him. He could not, he dare not, stop to explain their error to them. To stop was death. And Judith was the most persistent, the most relentless of his pursuers—

At last the darkness, through which he fled, was pierced by a blinding light, which played full upon his face, dazzling his eyes. They had turned a searchlight upon him, to aid them in hunting him down. All the world would see his fall. He twisted, this way and that, to avoid the light. But his frenzied efforts were all in vain. The light turned with him always, shining full upon his face. Then he fell—

Bright morning sunshine was streaming in through the open windows of the writing room, full upon the King's face, as he awoke. As he turned his head to avoid its blinding glare, he saw Uncle Bond's writing table, bare and empty, save for the candlesticks, in which mere stumps of candles remained. Slowly he became conscious of his surroundings. First he recognized the writing table, than the bare walls, then the room. Then he realized that he was lying on the sofa, under the windows. The blankets which covered him puzzled him for awhile. The fact that he was fully dressed in evening clothes puzzled him still more. Then memory was achieved, and he knew—who he was, where he was. Throwing off the blankets he sprang up on to his feet, and stretched himself with a sudden access of immense relief.

A burst of radiant, childish laughter, outside the room, down below in the garden, drew him to the windows.

Old Jevons, the gardener, was on the lawn, with Joshua, the equally elderly garden donkey, harnessed to the lawn mower. Bill was perched on Joshua's unwilling back. Button was pulling at Joshua's obstinate mouth. And Joshua would not move. Joshua was a capricious animal, with a temper of his own. To the laughing Imps, his recurring mutinies were a never failing joy.

In the bright morning light, against the green background of the garden trees, the animated little scene had a charm which was not lost upon the King.

"Wouldn't I wollop him? No! No! No!" Button carolled gleefully, abandoning Joshua's mouth, and converting the nursery rhyme into an action song of considerable vigour.

Suddenly, Joshua succumbed. Lowering his head before the storm, he moved forward.

Old Jevons, who had been waiting patiently for this capitulation, guided the machine.

"It's a hard world for donkeys!" the King moralized at the window. "But, once harnessed, I suppose—one has to pull the machine."

Then Judith appeared in the garden, stepping down from the verandah, and sauntering across the lawn.

But he did know! His clothes, his dishevelled appearance, made him feel foolish. The sooner he could get a bath, and a change, the better. It must be late. It must be nearly breakfast time. Now, while Judith and the Imps were out in the garden, he would probably be able to slip down to his bedroom, unobserved. The servants would be busy preparing breakfast. It must be eight o'clock at least. He must hurry—

Darting out of the writing room, he passed quickly down the staircase, and through the hall, without meeting anybody on the way. As he raced along the corridor which led to his bedroom, he noticed, with considerable satisfaction, that the bathroom was empty. Diving into his bedroom, he snatched up some towels, and his dressing case. Then he hurried back to the bathroom. It was with a feeling not far removed from triumph that he shut the bathroom door.

The cold water of the bath was stimulating, invigorating. A shave restored his self-respect. The last vestiges of his troubled sleep fell from him. He was rested, although his sleep had been troubled. He had needed rest. This morning, he was himself again. He was ready to face—whatever had to be faced. But not a moment sooner than was necessary. For the time being, he put thought from him, deliberately—

Back in his bedroom, he found that the grey lounge suit, which he had been wearing the day before, had been carefully brushed, and laid out ready for him. The invisible valet had been at work again. He dressed quickly. While he was knotting his tie, a point in his toilet that he was particular about, even this morning, from mere force of habit, the gong in the hall sounded. He looked at his watch. He had not been far out in his estimate of the time. It was just on half past eight. Did they know he was up? Of course they would know. No doubt, even here in his bedroom, he was being carefully, if unostentatiously, shadowed—

A sound of footsteps outside on the verandah told him that it was there, as usual, that breakfast was being served.

And Uncle Bond, if he was there, if he was equal to breakfasting in public for once, might have news—

The King stepped out of the bedroom, through the open window doors, on to the verandah.

"We all like your friend very much," Bill whispered. "He's been here a long, long time—quite twenty minutes!"

With his broad shoulders, and great height, the Duke dominated the little group, at the breakfast table, as he dominated every group, wherever he stood. He was still wearing the rather shabby black office suit which he had been wearing the day before. Whatever his experience had been, within the last twenty-four hours, it had not changed him. The formidable, massive features, under their crown of silver hair, the luminous, piercing, blue eyes, showed no sign of weariness, no hint even of anxiety. The force, the vigour, the look, of the wonderful old man were all unimpaired. He was still, as he had always been, the strong man, sure of himself, and of his purpose.

From that moment, he knew, for certain, that the Duke had brought good news; that the Duke had "cut the rope"—

There was an awkward little silence, as the King approached the breakfast table.

It was not that the Duke was at a loss. The Duke could never be at a loss. The King recognized that. Nor was it that Uncle Bond was embarrassed. The King was conscious that the little man was watching him with shining, mischievous eyes. Rather it was that the Duke, and Uncle Bond, deferred to him, in this silence, tacitly recognizing that it was for him to indicate how he wished to be met, whether as their friend, or as—the King.

Slipping into her place behind the coffee pot she turned to the King with her usual friendly little nod, and smile.

"You have had a good night? You slept?" she said. "The Imps were very anxious to wake you as usual. But I thought you would like to sleep on this morning. No, Bill. This is Uncle Alfred's coffee. That is right, Button. That is Uncle Alfred's chair."

It was Uncle Alfred, accordingly, who sat down in his usual place at the breakfast table, with his back to the house, facing the garden.

It was a strange meal, the strangest of the many strange meals which the King had known. The two parts which he had kept distinct for so long seemed now, somehow, suddenly to blend, to mingle, without any difficulty. He was Alfred, the sailor, again. And yet, he was—the King—

Once they had finished their porridge, the Imps were free to talk. They talked. To each other. To themselves. To anybody. To nobody in particular.

A lengthy dialogue between Bill, and a wholly invisible small boy called John, who had, apparently, a regrettable habit of grabbing his food, seemed to appeal, in particular, to the Duke, who entered into the play, with an imaginative readiness which the King had somehow never suspected.

The birds called cheerily from the garden. The whir of the haycutting machines was audible once again; but they were not so near the house, as on the previous day. Clearly the harvest was being gathered in the more distant fields. The sunshine lay pure gold everywhere—

The King found himself noticing these things, and registering them in his mind, as if this was to be the last time that he was to sit there, in Paradise, enjoying them.

First of all, Judith rose to her feet, and drove the Imps, armed with lumps of sugar, before her, along the verandah, to say good morning to Diana's foal in the paddock.

Then, a minute or two later, Uncle Bond slipped away, unostentatiously, into the house.

The King, and his friend, the Duke, were thus left alone, at the table, facing each other.

A sudden, odd desire to postpone what was coming, whatever was coming, beset the King. Producing his tobacco pouch and pipe, he filled his pipe leisurely.

The Duke betrayed no sign of impatience. A certain large patience, it occurred to the King, was, perhaps, the Duke's most pronounced characteristic.

"Your little holiday is over. Your short leave of absence is at an end, sir," he said. "I told you, you may remember, sir, that it would only be a short leave of absence."

"I am ready to go with you—back to duty," the King said slowly. "There is nothing, I think, to keep me here."

They crossed to the far end of the lawn, and turned, in silence. Then the King took the Duke's arm.

"I am here to ask you to return to the palace, sir," he said. "The crisis is over. The strike has failed. The success of the protective measures which we judged necessary has been overwhelming. Within an hour of the declaration of Martial Law and the operation of the 'Gamma' scheme, all the revolutionary leaders of the strike conspiracy were in custody. They are now at sea, on board the Iron Duke . I could not resist that little pleasantry. The Iron Duke sailed under sealed orders—for Bermuda, sir. The strike leaders will be interned there.

"The police have carried out their orders throughout with a skill, and a discretion, worthy of the highest praise. The military have been welcomed, with open arms everywhere. So far as we are aware, up to the present, law and order have been maintained with hardly a casualty. It has, in fact, been not so much a battle of the police and of the military, as of propaganda, sir. Our control of communications has been the foundation of our success. From the first, by a series of official bulletins, we have been able to put the facts of the situation before the whole nation, with a minimum of delay.

"There can no longer be any doubt, sir, that we were correct in our assumption that the great majority of trades unionists, up and down the country, had been deceived into the belief that the strike had been called for purely industrial reasons. Once we had succeeded in convincing them, by our bulletins, that they had been betrayed into the hands of a little group of foreign, revolutionary extremists, the strike was doomed. The anger of the deceived trades unionists has, ironically enough, been one of our few embarrassments. In many parts of the country, the military have had to protect the local trades union leaders, many of whom appear to have been as grossly deceived as anybody else, from the loyal fury of their followers.

"Mark that word loyal, sir! A great outburst of loyalty to you personally, sir, has been the outcome of the crisis. That you should have been subjected to such a crisis, before you had been given any opportunity to show your worth, has outraged the whole nation's sense of fair play. From all sections of the community, both here at home, and in the Dominions, messages of the most fervent loyalty have been pouring into Downing Street, during the last twenty-four hours. At the moment, you are the most popular man in the Empire, sir. The fact that, as soon as I had assured you that law and order would be maintained, you left the palace, and withdrew at once into the country, rather than take any part in the conflict, has greatly strengthened your hold on the people, sir. You left the palace, and withdrew to an unknown address, in the country, yesterday, sir, until the will of the people should be made known. You will return to the palace, today, sir, on the crest of a wave of enthusiasm, unparalleled, I think, in our history."

"I have no wish to hurry you, sir," the Duke replied. "But the sooner you return to the palace, and the Royal Standard is run up again on the palace flagstaff, the sooner will the existing state of a national emergency be at an end."

"I will come with you at once," the King said. "But first of all—I must take leave of my friends."

His eyes were fixed, as he spoke, on Judith, who had just reappeared, alone, on the verandah.

The Duke followed the King's glance. Then he fell back, two or three paces, and bowed with the hint of formality by which he was in the habit of suggesting, so subtly, and yet so unmistakably, that he was dealing with—the King.

"I am going back to town, at once, with the Duke," the King announced. "The Duke has come to fetch me. The crisis is over. The strike has failed. But you know that, of course—"

He paused there, for a moment, suddenly conscious of the utter ineptitude of what he was saying—

And then words came to him, fitting words, words to which, up to then, he had given no thought, but in which all his feelings for, all his thoughts about, Judith, so long suppressed, seemed, suddenly, to crystallize, and find inevitable expression—

"If thanks were necessary between us, I would thank you for all that you have done for me," he said. "But thanks are not necessary between us, are they? Where there is—friendship—there is no need for thanks. You said, yesterday, that you knew that there could be no change in our friendship, and that you were content that it should be so. You were right, of course. You are always right. You said what you did to reassure me, to relieve my anxiety, to remove the uncertainty about—our position—which was troubling me, although I was hardly aware that that was my trouble. What you said did reassure me. It did relieve my anxiety. But now, I want to say something, as plainly as I can, to you. It seems to me that what I have to say is—due to you—

"If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, of our friendship, I should stay here, now, with you. I should stay with you always. I should ask you to join your life to mine. I should ask you to make—Paradise—for me, wherever we were. If I were merely Alfred, the sailor, you would say—yes—gladly—

"But I am not merely Alfred, the sailor. I am—the King. Alfred, the sailor is—dead. Is it his epitaph that I am speaking now? I—the King—am going—back to duty. I am going back to try to take hold of my job—in a new way. I am going back, to try to think—first of England, and never of myself. I am trying to do that now—

"But, before I go, I want to make you a promise. I want to—pledge myself—to you, as far as I can. It will give me—a certain satisfaction—to bind myself to you, as far as I can.

Judith stood, motionless, beside him, while he spoke. Her beautiful vivid face was pale for once, and her dark eyes were troubled, as if with painful thought. But she met his glance without flinching, and her voice, when she spoke, was firm, if low.

"I think, I hope, you will marry, Alfred," she said. "But I am glad, and proud, that you have said what you have. It was—like you, to say it. It is—an acknowledgment—that I shall never forget, as long as I live—

"I will give you—a pledge—in return. Whatever happens, you will always be welcome here. Whatever happens, you will always find the same welcome here. You will never find—any changes here. I don't think Alfred, the sailor, is dead. I don't think he will ever die—as long as you live! For us, here, at any rate, you will always be—our friend Alfred!"

Once again, the King was conscious that Judith understood him better than he understood himself. Once again—was it for the last time?—it seemed to him that she had explained him to himself. What did all his talk amount to? An acknowledgment of the right, of the claim, that Judith had established upon him—that was all.

As unaccountably, and as suddenly then as they had come to him, before, words failed him.

Abruptly, he turned from Judith, and hurried away from her, round the side of the house—

On the verandah, beside the front door, the Duke and Uncle Bond were standing together deep in talk. Uncle Bond was holding the King's coat, and cap.

As the King approached, the Duke shook hands very cordially with Uncle Bond, and then stepped down from the verandah, and crossed to a large closed motor car, which was drawn up in the drive near by, with the uniformed chauffeur standing stiffly to attention at its open door.

For a moment, the King thought of passing Uncle Bond without speaking. But that, of course, was impossible. And yet—what could he say?

"This," he said, with a sweeping gesture which seemed to include the sunlit garden, the wooded landscape beyond, the house, and even Judith and himself, "has all been a dream, my boy. But it is now high time that you should awake out of sleep. Your real life is beginning now."

The King wrung the little man's hand in silence, and then followed the Duke to the waiting car.

The uniformed chauffeur, whose keen, clean-shaven face was motionless, impassive, a mask, shut the door, and hurried round to the front of the car, and started the engine.

A moment later, the car leapt forward and swept down the drive out into, and up, the narrow, tree-shadowed lane beyond.

t the top of the lane, a little group of Army officers in khaki service dress, who were standing on a strip of grass beside the hedge on the right, sprang smartly to attention, and saluted, as the car swept past them.

A moment later, as the car rushed out on to the Great North Road, he realized, with a start, that this salute, and his acknowledgment of it, marked, definitely, his return to duty.

It had been just as Judith had said. The shadow thrown by his Royal rank had been waiting for him there in the lane, behind him—

"That was battalion headquarters, the Coldstreams, Colonel Varney Wilson in command," the Duke explained. "It is they who have been responsible for your safety, during the last twenty-four hours, sir."

The Duke shot one of his shrewd, penetrating glances at the King. Then the old statesman leant far back in his corner in the luxuriously upholstered car. He did not speak again.

The King was grateful to the Duke for his silence, and for the ready understanding of his mood which that silence implied.

"When an action speaks for itself, why use words? They will probably be the wrong words."

He was going back to duty. That was quite enough at the moment. He did not want to talk about it—

Although it was still so early in the day, the cattle were already lying under the green shade of the trees, in the fields. The hedges on either side of the road were white with the blossoms of the wild rose. Overhead the sky was a luminous blue, unflecked by cloud—

This was Paradise that he was rushing through. This was Paradise that he was leaving. Would he ever return? Perhaps he would. But never with his old recklessness, never with his old lightness of heart. So much had happened. He had been through so much. He had changed. There was a heaviness of thought, a deadness of feeling, within him, now, which he had never known before. It was as if he had lost something, lost some part of himself, which he would never be able to recover. Was it his youth?

Was his real life beginning now? Uncle Bond again! Had he been living in a dream? Had he not often felt that he was living in a dream? a wild, grotesque, nightmare dream? But that had always been at the palace. Here, in Paradise, it had seemed to him that he was in touch with reality. And now, Paradise itself, and all that had happened there, seemed a dream. High time to awake out of sleep? He would be glad to awake. He would be glad to touch the real. But would he ever awake?

The rushing, throbbing car, the motionless figure of the Duke at his side, the broad, winding road, the sunlit, peaceful, countryside, his own thoughts—all these things were the very stuff of dreams, fantastic, unbelievable, unreal. His deadness of feeling, his heaviness of thought, were dream. His lost youth was dream. This silence? No one ever spoke in dreams—

An odd, unexpected turn, this, in the dream, but dream, assuredly still dream—

The car had pulled up at the Paradise-Hades signpost of all places. That could only have happened in dream—

A little group of saluting soldiers, and bareheaded civilian officials, stood under the familiar signpost.

In the centre of the main road stood an open state carriage, with a team of six grey horses, in the charge of postillions and out-riders, who were wearing the scarlet coats, and white breeches of the Royal livery.

A bodyguard of Household Cavalry, whose swords, breastplates and plumed helmets glittered in the sun, were drawn up near by.

"This is where you begin your triumphant return to your capital, sir," he said. "A great welcome awaits you, between here and the palace. The Cabinet were making the necessary arrangements when I left town this morning. You will permit me to follow you to the carriage, sir?"

Mechanically, the King moved slowly along the sunlit road, towards the carriage, followed by the Duke at a distance of some half dozen paces.

An extraordinary dream this, amazingly vivid and minute in its detail; but dream, certainly dream. If only he could awake! Where would he awake? In the palace? In Paradise? He must awake soon—

The scarlet coated footman, who had held open the carriage door, was about to shut it again—when the King missed the Duke from his side—

A terrifying thrill of loneliness, a horror of his sudden isolation, ran through the King.

The Duke was standing, drawn up to his full height, with bared head, a magnificent, a real, a vital figure, in this sunlit world of phantom shadows, some yards away from the carriage.

"You must not leave me. You must come with me. I cannot face this—nightmare—alone," the King said in an urgent whisper. "I shall—lose my reason—if you leave me. I am not sure now, at this moment, whether I am asleep or awake. Do people talk in dreams? You seem real. All the rest, everything else is—the stuff of dreams. You cannot leave me."

The Duke waved the scarlet coated footman to one side, and got into the carriage, and sat down beside the King. His mere physical presence, his vitality, his energy, at once steadied the King. For one terrible moment, it had seemed to him that he was falling through infinite space—

A couple of the cars parked in the side road, beyond the signpost, shot forward, and swept on ahead up the main road.

A curt word of command rang out, and the Household Cavalry wheeled, with the precision of clockwork, into position, in front of, and behind, the state carriage.

The scarlet coated footmen sprang up on to their stand, at the back of the carriage. The out-riders swung clear into their places. The postillions whipped up their horses—

As the carriage moved forward, the Duke dropped his left hand on to the seat, between the King and himself.

"Take my hand. Grip it, sir!" he said. "I am real! Do not hesitate, sir. We are quite unobserved. A time comes in most men's lives when they need—the grip of the hand of a friend. I am an old man, sir; old enough to be your father. When you take my hand, it is as if you reached out and gripped your father's hand—

"I would have spared you all this, I would have spared you the ordeal of the wild enthusiasm which awaits you, a little further on, if it had been possible, sir. But it was not possible. I realized the risks involved—all the risks, and they are considerable. I counted the cost—to you. But the end to be attained far outweighs the price to be paid. The spectacular, the triumphant, return to the palace, which you are just beginning, sir, will do more to consolidate your hold on the people than anything else could have done. The psychology of the mob is, and must always remain, an incalculable force; but, with a little skill, with a little courage, with a little patience, it can be controlled, it can be used."

The King hardly heard what the Duke said. But the grip of the old man's hand on his was as a rock to cling to. This was what he had wanted; something tangible, actual, real to hold on to, in this dream world of sunlit phantoms which enveloped him. He was no longer alone. With the Duke like this at his side, he could face whatever twists and turns their dream might take. It was their dream, now—

The carriage moved slowly forward, but, slowly as it moved, it soon entered—the outskirts of Hades—

In the outer suburbs, all the scattered, decorous, red-tiled villas were gay with flags, gayer than they had been in that other life, ages ago, on the Coronation Day. At various points on the road now stood little groups of people, the vanguard of the thousand, flushed, curious faces, the thousand eyes—

The crowd thickened. The little groups became two continuous lines of people, on either side of the road, people closely packed in deep ranks, behind cordons of policemen.

At first, the King smiled, and bowed, mechanically, to the left, and to the right, as he sat in the carriage.

Soon he found himself standing up, bareheaded, in the carriage, so that all the people could see him.

The Duke, who had sunk far back into the carriage, supported him from behind against his knees.

In the inner suburbs, the flags were thicker than ever. Every window was open, and full of flushed, excited, smiling faces. Many of the roofs of the shops and houses were black with people. Down below, in the road, as the carriage moved slowly forward, the crowd swayed to and fro, in a frenzy of enthusiasm. Flowers fell, thick and fast, in a multi-coloured rain, in front of the carriage. Here and there, at conspicuous street corners, men in working dress tore, or trampled upon, or burnt, the Red Flag of the revolutionary—

It was a universal outpouring of pent-up feeling, a delirium of enthusiasm, without parallel—

The King himself could not remain, for long, unaffected. In spite of himself, in spite of his determination not to be deceived by the chimeras of this fevered, sunlit, daydream, he was caught up on, he was thrilled by, the wild enthusiasm which surged about him. His pulse quickened. He trembled where he stood in the carriage—

It was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he could see. It was as if some weight that had been pressing upon his brain was lifted, and he could think clearly, sanely. He had been not far from the verge of madness. Now he was himself again—

This was no dream. These people at whom he was smiling, these people to whom he was bowing, mechanically, right and left, were actual, real. This roar of cheers meant something. It rang true. It was genuine. It was sincere. These cheers, repeated, over and over again, never ending, had a new, deep, unmistakable personal note, which he had never heard before. This was no half-hearted, perfunctory enthusiasm. These people were glad to see him. They were cheering—him. And they meant it! They were—his people. And he was—their King—

A thrill of triumph, an exultation which shook him, from head to foot, as he stood in the carriage, ran through the King.

But these people, his people, did not know what had happened, what he had done, how lightly he had held them. If they knew the true, the inner, history of the last twenty-four hours, would they cheer him like this?

All his former impatience with, his contempt for, himself, at that moment, returned to the King.

What right had he to be standing there, smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of this wild, this fervent, enthusiasm? He had done nothing to earn it. He had forfeited all right to it—

It was the old statesman behind him, sitting far back in the carriage, who ought to be standing there, in his place—in the place of honour—in the forefront of—this procession—

Swinging round in the carriage, the King beckoned, impetuously, to the Duke, to stand up beside him.

Then he stood up beside the King, in the carriage, towering head and shoulders above him.

And so, with the Duke in as prominent a place as the King could give him, as prominent a place as his own, the carriage moved on, through the dust and the clamour, and the wild cheering, into the heart of the town—

By this time, the heat, the glitter and the glare, and the frenzied enthusiasm which surged all about him, had begun to tell upon the King. The physical strain of it all became almost unendurable, deadening the impressions which for some few minutes had been so vivid, so clear. The thousand, flushed, smiling faces, the thousand eyes troubled him no more. The crowd became a mere blurred, dark, clamorous mass, swaying to and fro, on either side of him. Only the Duke remained distinct, individual, standing bolt upright beside him in the carriage, impassive, immovable, a rock to lean upon, physically, and morally, as he smiled and bowed, this way and that, with unseeing eyes—

How long the torture of this later stage of their journey lasted, the King never knew. It had become torture now. All sense of time, and distance, and place left him. He had no clear idea of the route which the carriage followed. His body ached from head to foot. The roaring of the crowd was a mere whisper to the roaring within his own ears. He leant more and more heavily upon the Duke—

At last, at the end of an eternity of effort, an eternity of strained endurance, the carriage swung through Trafalgar Square, and so passed, under the lavishly decorated Admiralty Arch, into the Mall.

This sudden, abrupt glimpse of the palace, and the promise of ultimate release and rest it afforded, served to arouse the King, and revived his interest, momentarily, in his immediate surroundings.

In the Mall, the Coronation flags still hung, flaunting and gay, in the sunlight. On either side of the road, the stands from which the guests of the Government had viewed the Coronation procession were once again crowded with people, whose enthusiasm was as wild, and whose cheering was as loud, as the carriage moved slowly past them, as that at any other point along the whole route.

One detail in the riot of colour, and the tumult, about him, caught the King's attention.

The road was no longer lined by the police, and the military. In their place stood men in every variety of civilian dress, alike alone in this, that every one of them was wearing war medals proudly displayed, in the majority of cases on very threadbare coats.

"The Legion of Veterans, sir," the Duke replied. "Their old Commander-in-Chief raised his hand, and thousands of them fell in, at once, all over the country. They reinforced the police and the military. There was no need for us to enrol special constables. The Field Marshal asked that they might be given some post of honour today in recognition of their services. It was decided that they should line the Mall here, and provide an auxiliary guard at the palace."

And so, guarded now by men whose loyalty had been tried and tested on a dozen battlefields, the carriage passed up the Mall, and swung, at last, through the great central, wrought iron gates, into the quadrangle, in front of the palace—

The Duke fell back, half a dozen paces behind the King, and a little to one side—

A massed band of the Guards, drawn up in the centre of the quadrangle began to play the National Anthem.

High up, on the flagstaff above the palace roof, the Royal Standard rose, and, caught by the wind, shook out, at once, every inch of its silken folds.

Above the flagstaff a score, or more, of decorated aeroplanes swerved, and dived, firing red, white, and blue rockets, a signal seen all over London.

The bells of Westminster rang out joyously, followed by the bells of all the city churches.

From the Green Park, on the right, came the sudden thunder of the guns of a Royal salute.

But louder than the guns, drowning their thunder, the joyous music of the bells, and the music of the band, rose the cheers of the people, near and far, a deep, rhythmical, continuous roar—

For a moment or two, the King remained motionless, rigid, in acknowledgment of the salute.

Then he turned sharply to his right, and moved across the quadrangle, followed by the Duke at a distance of some paces, to the main entrance door of the palace.

On either side of the palace steps, within the doorway, and in the hall beyond, were ranged Cabinet Ministers, military and naval representatives, and high officials of the Court, and the household staff.

The King passed them by only vaguely conscious of their presence, and made straight for the great central, main staircase in the palace.

His concern was with the immense crowd round the palace, whose wild cheering he could still hear, even here as he ascended the staircase.

At the head of the staircase, followed more closely now by the Duke, the King turned into the little withdrawing room, from which the huge windows, above the main entrance of the palace, opened.

The King crossed the room, and stepped through the windows out on to the stone balcony, above the main entrance.

A great roar of cheers, a wild waving of flags and hands, from which he all but recoiled, greeted his appearance.

For the next twenty or thirty minutes, save for brief rests in a chair, placed in readiness for him in the little withdrawing room behind him, the King was out on the balcony, bareheaded, in the blazing noon sunshine, smiling and bowing in acknowledgment of the wild enthusiasm of the crowd.

Over and over again, when he sought to prolong his all too short rests in the little room behind him, he was compelled to return to the balcony, in response to the insistent, the tumultuous demands of the crowd.

Once or twice, he made the Duke appear on the balcony, at his side. But the people clearly preferred his solitary appearances—

The little room behind him gradually filled. A number of the more important Court officials, and certain privileged members of the household staff, gathered there, and stood in little groups, well back from the windows.

Once, as he threw himself into his chair, a tall, distinguished looking, grey-haired man, whom he recognized dully as his physician, detached himself from one of these little groups, approached him, held his pulse for a moment, and then, without speaking, handed him a glassful of some colourless stimulant which he drank, although it made no impression whatever on his palate.

Later, back in the glaring sunlight on the balcony once again, he was conscious of the help of the physician's draught. His senses were quickened. He felt less fatigued. But he knew, as the roar of the seething crowd round the palace came up to him once more, that this would have to be one of the last of his appearances. For a little longer, he could hold out, using the factitious energy with which the stimulant had temporarily endowed him. Then must come collapse—

A man, who seemed to dart out from amongst a little knot of men in civilian dress, on the left, just inside the quadrangle railings, a man on whose breast war medals glittered in the sun, dashed across the quadrangle, towards the main entrance of the palace.

Flung, bodily, back from the balcony, through the huge open windows, he fell, heavily, on the floor of the little room within.

The windows were blocked now by a familiar tall figure, by a pair of familiar, broad shoulders—

A moment later there were two, short, sharp explosions. Bombs. Then a great clatter of falling glass—

There, on the balcony, immediately in front of him, in the litter of broken glass from the huge windows, lay the Duke, motionless, at full length, bleeding from a dozen jagged wounds.

A madness, a fury, which culminated in a passionate resentment of the hands that were holding him back, took possession of the King.

Hardly knowing what he did, he struck out, right and left, savagely, viciously, with all his force.

Led by the tall, grey-haired physician, four or five of the Court officials followed him, hard on his heels, picked up the Duke, and carried him back into the safety of the little room within—

Down below in the quadrangle, another limp, huddled figure was being borne, hurriedly, and unceremoniously by red-coated soldiers, whose fixed bayonets caught the sun, in the direction of the guardroom, on the right. There was no life in that figure—

Beyond the palace railings, the maddened, infuriated crowd swayed to and fro in great billows of pent-up fury, an ocean of clamorous, tumultuous passion, striving to break its bounds, to the accompaniment of animal cries of anger, and the confused shouting of a thousand voices.

The King took it all in at a glance. A sudden, strange calm, a sure, quiet confidence were with him now.

The anger of the crowd was hideous, menacing. The line of the military, and the police, between the crowd and the palace tossed up and down, like a line of corks on a wild, tempestuous sea. At any moment, that line might break, and the infuriated mob would be let loose, with its madness, its lust for blood, its wild shouting for lynch law.

Anything might happen, at any moment, unless something was done, and done quickly.

Without haste, surely, and skilfully, the King climbed on to the stone parapet of the balcony.

Never again, it seemed to him, at the moment, would he know doubt, anxiety or fear—

For some time, the wild frenzy of the crowd, down below, beyond the palace railings continued unabated. Then some of the people caught sight of the bareheaded, slim, incredibly boyish figure, in the inconspicuous grey lounge suit, standing on his precarious, windswept perch, on the parapet of the balcony. Then others saw him. Slowly, the surge of the crowd slackened. Slowly, the pandemonium died down. At last, the tumult and the uproar gave place to a universal, joyous cry—

The King dropped his hand to his side, and spoke. His voice rang out loud and clear, the voice of a sailor, trained to pitch his voice, instinctively, to carry as far as possible in the open air.

"My people"—the words rose simply and naturally to his lips, thrilling him as he used them—"this was to have been a day of great national rejoicing. It has been turned, in a moment, into a day of great national mourning. I am unhurt, untouched. But a greater man than I, the Duke of Northborough, lies dying in the room behind me. He gave his life for mine." His voice shook a little. "From this moment, I hold my life, a sacred trust, at his hands.

"I will say nothing, now, of the madman, whose madness has been used as the instrument to strike down an old man, whose long and noble life has been devoted wholly to the best interests of our country. Death has already closed that madman's account. Nor will I speak, now, of the men, whose wild and reckless talk makes such madness possible. Such men turn, naturally, to assassination and murder, in defeat.

"I ask you, now, not to disturb the last moments of the great man, who has just crowned his long and noble life with the 'greater love,' before which we all bare and bow our heads, by any retaliation, by any outburst, by any demonstration, of the wilder passions against which he always set his face like flint. I ask you, now, to disperse, as quietly, and as quickly, as you can, and return to your own homes, the homes which the great man we mourn, within the last twenty-four hours, has guarded from the anarchy of revolution, and maintained in peace.

A low murmur rose from the crowd, while the King spoke. The people, on the edge of the crowd nearest to the palace, repeated what he said, to those behind them. They repeated it again. And so, in this almost miraculous way, something of what he said reached to the furthest limits of the immense crowd, and even spread beyond, through the thronged streets of the city.

For a time, the huge crowd still hesitated. Then some one began to sing. Next moment the whole crowd was singing, with a deep volume of sound, like the sound of many waters—

Over and over again, the band played the national melody. Over and over again, the crowd sang the familiar words, finding in them, at last, an outlet for all their pent-up passions—

And then, suddenly, still singing with undiminished fervour, slowly, and quietly, in marvellous order, as if they had been soldiers on parade, the people began to move away.

The King climbed down from his perilous, windswept perch on the parapet, on to the balcony again.

Then he turned, and passed through the shattered windows into the little room behind him—

They had laid the Duke on the floor of the room. The tall, grey-haired physician stood at the dying statesman's head. All that medical skill could do to ease his passing had been done. Already he was far beyond the reach of any human aid.

The brilliant summer sunshine shone full on the familiar, formidable, massive features, deathly white, now.

Some obscure instinct prompted him to take the old man's hand—the hand which had done so much for him, the hand which had never failed him,—the hand which had saved him, from himself—

No doubt, the singing of the crowd outside the palace had reached the dying man's ears—

The King did not speak. It seemed to him that there was no need for words. He felt that the Duke knew all his thoughts. He knew that the Duke was glad to have him, now, at the last, at his side.

This man had done his work. This man had rounded off his life's work, with a completeness, which it is given to few men to achieve.

The lightning conductor had taken the full shock of the lightning flash, and then fallen.

In the presence of this great man's triumphant self-sacrifice, any thought of self seemed irreverence—

"We shall not all sleep—but we shall all be changed—in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye—for the trumpet shall sound—and we shall be changed—"

For this man, surely, all the trumpets would sound on the other side. For this man—they would crowd the battlements of Heaven to see him enter—

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