“If Pannonia supports us at Czarigrad in pressing anew for our recognition from Roum it will be, but not otherwise,” said Cyril, shortly. “But this uncertainty disposes of any idea of appealing to the British Government. What we have to do is to work upon Dickinson in a way he can understand.” “And what is that?” asked King Johann. “I know a man on the staff of the ‘Universe,’” answered Cyril, “and it will give him and his chief the purest pleasure to make Dickinson take a back seat over this business. I shall simply send him one little fact, and he will work it up with a few flourishes about Dickinson’s abnormal faculty for discovering mares’ nests, and a passing remark or two on the subject of his descent from the man who hated Aristides.” “But what is the fact?” asked the King, eagerly. “Merely this, that the brother of the much-injured lady is still an officer in my brother’s guard, and dined at our table, quite in a friendly spirit, the night before we left Bellaviste. If the O’Malachy had any sense of dramatic consistency, he would have ordered him to resign his commission; but as the idea hasn’t struck him, we are all right.” “But the mere demonstration that the charge he has brought against your brother is an absurdity will not affect this Dickinson,” said the King. “Oh yes, it will. The very suggestion that he has been taken in by such a ridiculous story will be a sufficient punishment for him.” “But if the aim of his journal is to circulate lies, he cannot have any regard for the truth,” objected the King. “He cares very much about his reputation as a shrewd man of the world,” said Cyril. “And you musn’t judge his paper from its title. That is Dickinson’s little joke. He calls it ‘Mendacity’ on the _lucus a non lucendo_ principle, from a theory of his that the name is intended to indicate what the paper is not. The ‘Times,’ he says, is behind the times; the ‘Standard’ lags in the rear, instead of leading; and it is just the same with his paper--in each case the contents contradict the name. But some people think that there is more truth in the title than anywhere inside the cover.” “So it would appear,” said the King. “We are rather proud of Dickinson at home,” Cyril went on. “He is a purely English product, and _fin de siècle_ at that. No other nation can rival his peculiar humour.” The King looked as though he, at any rate, found it difficult also to appreciate the bent of Mr Dickinson’s genius. “But the ‘Universe’ will have him on toast this time with a vengeance,” continued Cyril, cheerfully. “I suppose we may consider the little affair agreeably settled, sir? Perhaps I may remark that the sooner our application at Czarigrad is granted the easier we shall find it to deal with cases of this kind.”