And so before the King had even finished reading he felt it his duty to write imploring his son not to publish. Before an answer could reach him important events supervened. The reverberations of the bomb brought Max flying back to the bosom of his family; and then the Charlotte episode had followed, over which Max had not been at all sympathetic, for in spite of his emancipated views about things in general, he had still the particular notion that revolution belonged only to men, and that women, incapable of conducting it efficiently, had far better leave it alone. And so it was that only when things had begun to resettle themselves was any fresh reference made to the book's forthcoming publication. As soon as the subject was broached Max presented a face of polite astonishment. "I thought you knew, sir," he said. "Knew what?" "The most important event in recent history; I even thought you might have instigated it." "I don't know what you are talking about." "Then I must break the news. My book has been burned to the ground." He spoke as though it had been an edifice. "I am told, for my consolation, that it burned extremely well--'fiercely,' the papers said--and gave the firemen a lot of trouble. Your letter and the news reached me almost simultaneously; I knew, therefore, that you would be glad." "No, no, don't say 'glad,'" protested the King; "in a way I am sorry, even. I only wanted it to be anonymous. One can do things anonymously. How did it come about?" "It was the work of an incendiary." "How do you know that?" "There was absolute proof,--something which refused to burn,--a box of matches made in Jingalo, or some other fire-resistant of a similar kind. The perpetrator got off. Yes--the House of Ganz-Wurst certainly seems at the present moment particularly to attract the attentions of these obscurantists in politics. Who knows whether the hand which threw the bomb at you had not already been dipped in the petrol which had given so flaming an account of my claims to authorship?" "What are you going to do about it?" "Reprint, I suppose, as soon as I can afford it, or do you still wish me not to? You hold almost the only copy that is left." The King shook his head. "As I told you, Max, I think publication would be very unwise; you would be sure to regret it afterwards. Remember that some day you will come to the throne; and what you think you can do now you can't do then. All at once it becomes impossible." And then the King gave a queer consternated gasp, for he himself remembered something--something he had conditionally promised, believing that the conditions would never be fulfilled; and now fate had brought them about; and if Max so willed it a thing would presently be taking place much more disturbing to the institution of royalty than the publication of a mere book.