By this time, the King had succeeded in working his way across the road. He turned now, mechanically to his left, down a quiet, side street, which ended in a cul-de-sac, but afforded, on the right, an entrance to one of those odd, shut in havens of coach-houses and stables, which are to be found all over the West End of London, tucked away behind the great houses, from which they usually take their directory title, with the addition of that admirably significant word, mews. Here, in a small, lock-up garage, which he had contrived to rent in the name of a youthful member of his personal, secretarial staff, the King kept a two-seated, powerfully engined, motor car. Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage, a light-hearted but discreet, cadet of a good house, had also lent his name for the purchase of the car. In recognition of Blunt's complaisance in the matter, the King had allowed him to accompany him in one or two harmless Caliph Haroun Al Raschid night interludes, in which the car had figured; but Blunt, as Vizier, had no idea that the King, his Caliph, used the car, as now, for solitary excursions. The police constable on the beat happened to be testing, with his bull's-eye lantern in action, the fastenings of the adjacent coach-houses and stables, in the dimly lit mews, when the King arrived at the garage. Recognizing in the King, as he thought, a resident in one of the neighbouring houses, the constable saluted him respectfully, and helped him to open the garage doors, and run out the car.