Drawing another chair up to the table, as she spoke, she sat down. Then she proceeded to wait upon him with the easy, unembarrassed grace which gave such an intimate charm to all her hospitality. "Whisky and soda? And a biscuit? Or will you smoke?" she asked. "I am too tired to smoke. I am almost too tired to drink, I think," the King murmured. Judith looked at him keenly. "What you want is sleep, Alfred," she said. "Drink this! It will do you good. Don't bother to talk. I'll do the talking." The King took the glass which Judith held out to him, and drank, as he was told. Then he leant further back still in his chair. He had reached a point, he was suddenly conscious now, not far removed from complete exhaustion. In a little while, Judith, as she had promised, began to talk. "You will see Uncle Bond, in the morning, of course," she remarked. "You will do him good. He is in rather a bad way, just at present, poor old dear. The new serial seems to be giving him a lot of trouble. 'Cynthia St. Claire' isn't functioning properly, at the moment. He's locked himself up, for several nights now, without any result. He says it doesn't seem to matter how many candles he lights. 'Cynthia' still eludes him. It really is a sort of Jekyll and Hyde business with him, you know. If he is to do any work, he has to be 'Cynthia St. Claire,' and not James Bond. It is plain James Bond we prefer, of course. But it is 'Cynthia' who makes all the money, you know. "The worst of it is, in spite of what Uncle Bond says, I am afraid it isn't all 'Cynthia's' fault this time. He's been running up to town, and knocking about the clubs, a good deal lately. That is nearly always a sign that he is trying to dodge 'Cynthia.' It is almost as if he had got something on his mind. Seeing you will do him good. He always gets what he calls a flow on, when you have been over. He wants it badly now. The new story is three instalments behind the time-table already. Part of his trouble, I think, is that he is working on a plain heroine. He does them alternately, you know. One Plain. The next Ringlets. This one, I understand, is very plain. He misses the chance, I believe, of filling in with purple passages of personal description. You have read some of Uncle Bond's stuff, haven't you? Officially, I am not allowed to. Unofficially, of course, I read every word of it I can get hold of. It's wonderful how he keeps it up, isn't it? And, every now and then, in spite of 'Cynthia,' he slips in something, without knowing it, which only James Bond could have written. All sorts of unexpected people read him, you know. He says it is the name, and not the stuff, that does the trick. I think that it is the stuff. People like romance. Uncle Bond gives it to them." At that moment, the sleep, of which the King stood in such dire need, long overdue as it was, touched his eyelids. Judith shot out her arm, and skilfully retrieved the half empty glass, which all but fell from his hand.