He had expected opposition, and argument. What he had wanted, he realized now, was opposition and argument-- But he had gone too far to withdraw. And he had no wish to withdraw. At any rate he would see Judith. He would see Uncle Bond. He would be--in Paradise-- Without speaking, words at the moment, were quite beyond him, the King drew up his revolving chair to the writing table, once again, and sat down. Picking up the sheet of note-paper on which he had begun to write to his sister--how long ago that seemed!--he tore off the unused half of the paper, crumpling the other half up in his hand. Then he found his pen, and wrote-- "James Bond Esq., Mymm's Manor, Mymm's Valley, Mymms, Hertfordshire." Turning in his chair, he handed the half sheet of paper to the Duke. "That will be my address. I shall stay there," he said. The Duke glanced at the paper, and then folded it up neatly, and slipped it into his pocket. "You have no time to lose, sir," he said. "It is already nearly half past eleven. Within half an hour, just before noon, all civilian traffic, in and out of London, will cease. The police, and the military will be in control in the streets. Barriers will be erected on all the roads. Only Government traffic will be allowed to pass. You have time to get away, but only just time." The King sprang up to his feet, and darted across the room. He was, all at once, wild to get away, wild to get away from the Duke, from the palace, from himself, from this unreal, grotesque, nightmare life of his-- But, half way across the room, he paused, and swung round, and faced the Duke yet once again. A sudden, belated twinge of compunction, a whisper of the conscience which he had all this time been defying, had impelled him to think of the Duke. "Am I letting you down, Duke?" he exclaimed impulsively. "After--all you have done for me--I wouldn't let you down for worlds!" A smile, in which there was no trace of grimness, lit up the old Duke's rugged, massive features. "Thank you, sir," he said. "You are not letting me down, sir. You can enjoy your--reckless little excursion--with an easy mind. But I did not like, and I do not like, your use of that ill-omened word 'strike,' sir,--even in jest! Remembering the language of the Service, in which, like you, I had the honour to be trained, I prefer to say that you are--proceeding on short leave of absence, shall we say, sir? It will only be a short leave of absence, sir. Twenty-four, or forty-eight, hours, at the most. You will do well, I think, sir, to remember that!" Incredible as the whole scene was, there could be no doubt about the old statesman's entire sincerity. The King's last fear, his last scruple fell from him. In his relief he laughed aloud, lightheartedly. "Call it whatever you like, Duke," he exclaimed. "But, for me, it is--my way of going on strike!" And with that, he turned, and darted out of the room.