The row broke out in the Promenade as the Royal portrait flashed out and faded. A German voice swore shrilly, another expostulated, and a woman screamed and screamed.... "’Ere! What’s up, what’s up now along o’ you, young woman?" demanded a burly gold-braided Commissionaire, thrusting through the staring crowd that had gathered. He dragged Lil, still screeching and clawing, from the windpipe of her dishevelled patron, adding, "Do you call this pretty be’aviour? I’m ashamed o’ you—I am!" "He hissed.... The —— hissed the King!" Lil gasped, scarlet and vituperative and still clawing. "Let me git at ’im! Let me——" "No, hold her tight! It is a lie! She is drunk!" snarled the German who had hissed. His necktie, a choice thing in Berlin haberdashery, much sported on the Unter den Linden, was plucked up by the roots, and a broad bleeding scratch adorned his flushed and angry features. But at the suggestion that he should give the offender in charge of the Police, he melted with his companion into the thinnest of thin air, and Lil did not spend the night in the cells at Wine Street Police-Station. There ought to have been a paragraph in the _Daily Teller_ or the _Morning Wire_, but it was crowded out by the report—in leaded type—of von Herrnung’s death and that of the boy, his volunteer passenger, the only son of Dr. Owen Saxham, M.D., F.R.C.S., M.V.O., whose distinguished share in the Defence of Gueldersdorp would always be remembered, etc., etc., even now that the frank, manly, and courageous policy of General Botha had established permanent and solid ties of friendship between the Briton and the Boer. A sudden freak, perhaps a private bet, had induced the deceased officer, Captain Count von Herrnung of the Prussian Field Flying Service, son of a distinguished official of the German Imperial Foreign Office, and hero of the two days’ flight from Hanover to Paris in the previous April,—to essay the crossing to Germany at a late hour, and in the face of a threatening gale. Another paragraph recorded how the wreck of the monoplane, "Bird of War" (wrongly described as "the property of Fanshaw’s Flying School"), "had been found by a passenger-steamer of the Hamburg Line, bound for Newcastle, floating derelict in the North Sea." A telephone-call followed the ring that had heralded the stroke of Fate’s scimitar on that thick bull-neck of Saxham’s. He answered it through the roaring in his ears of the North Sea waters that had drowned the boy. "Are you there?" came in the voice of the friend so toughly tried, so faithfully trusted. "You have heard the report? Your voice tells me you have! Hope, man!—hope!—against everything go on hoping!" The thick slow answer came stumbling over the wire: "Have I—grounds for hope?" Came the prompt reply: "I say yes! Dare to despair, when you hear that from me!" "God bless you, General!" "Have you—you have not told her?" Saxham answered, steadying his twitching lips: