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. The lock worked smoothly. The door opened inwards. The King stepped out on to the pavement of Lower Grosvenor Place. The door, operated by a spring, closed silently behind him. 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. Inevitably jostled, and pushed, by the crowd, he made slow progress. Suddenly, his progress was arrested altogether. 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.