The King was seated in a massive chair of magnificently carved oak, beside a portentous-looking table, littered with documents of state and other papers tied together with pink or blue silk ribbon. As he sat there, he presented the appearance of a man slightly above the middle height, slight of figure and thin of face, with keen, bright blue eyes, a long and luxuriant brown moustache and short, closely clipped, lighter-brown beard. The face, deeply marked with lines of thought and care, showed keen perception and sharp intuition. His movements were quick and nervous. There was one noticeable mannerism. The face had a peculiar aptitude for breaking into a smile which at its moment of origin was bright and cheery and, so lasting for a moment, suddenly died away into a fixed, cold stare. It was as a gleam of sunshine, followed by frost. He was garbed in the dress of the Court and upon his breast glittered a single order. Beside and slightly behind him stood Lord Cyril Ashley, Vice-Chancellor of the Empire and Master of the Imperial Household. Lord Ashley was a well-preserved man of middle age; tall, handsome, and of soldierly bearing. The face, with its dark eyes, strongly marked brows and sweeping black moustache, was that of a man of stern will and strong determination. He was dressed in the dashing uniform of a Captain of the Guards. Colonel Cuming advanced, bowing low before the King, followed by his two companions. The Colonel was received by His Majesty with marked cordiality and at the royal invitation he presented the Professor and Kearns. As the latter was presented, the King turned upon him a sharp, scrutinizing glance. His Majesty listened to the story of the resurrection of the two wayfarers from the past with an air of marked interest and after asking a number of questions signified that the interview was at an end. But it was the royal wish that Mr. Thomas Kearns should remain in special audience. Colonel Cuming and the Professor accordingly backed out of the royal presence, leaving Kearns somewhat astonished and perplexed amid his novel surroundings. “History records, Mr. Kearns,” said the King, “that you were the most skilful and the most successful Chief of Secret Service this country has ever known. Is not that correct, Milord?” he asked, turning to Lord Ashley. “It is so recorded, Sire,” answered the Vice-Chancellor. “Our historians and our writers of fiction have alike presented to us Mr. Kearns as the great Chief of Secret Service of the Western world--the equal of Vidocq, or of Fouché, if not their superior.” “Just so,” said the King; “and it is precisely a Fouché that we need at our court at the present time. Your old-time cunning is, doubtless, still with you?” Kearns bowed somewhat awkwardly. “I do not know, Sire,” he answered simply. He had heard both Colonel Cuming and Lord Ashley address the King as “Sire,” and he thought it best to follow this form. “How so--you do not know?” inquired the King.