He was a real man, alive, breathing, and thinking, at the moment, here, in the sunlight, by the windows. The King whom the old Duke of Northborough addressed as "Sir," the King who lived in the palace, guarded night and day by the soldiery and the police, the King who had, at last, asserted himself recklessly, gone on strike, taken a holiday--he was a mere delusion, a dream. But the real part, the better part, had now to be dropped. Fate, chance, circumstances over which he had had no control, had decided that. Yes. "Alfred," "my boy," was gasping for life, taking a last look at the green beauty of the sunlit, summer world, now, here at the windows-- The King shook himself, impatiently, and turned from the windows. His position was trying enough, as it was, without his indulging in imaginary morbidity! As he turned, his eyes were caught by an open book, which lay on the window sill, beside the sofa, on his right. Had not Uncle Bond said something about a book, a book on the window sill, beside the sofa, a book that might interest him? An uncommon book that! He was no reading man, as Uncle Bond knew well. But it might be a copy of the little man's latest shocker-- Welcoming the distraction, the King advanced to the sofa, and picked up the book. In the centre of the right-hand page of the open volume a couple of sentences had been heavily scored in pencil. The King read these words-- "Is it not strange so few Kings abdicate; and none yet heard of has been known to commit suicide? Fritz the First, of Prussia, alone tried it; and they cut the rope." It was a moment or two before the King's brain registered the sense of the words. He read the sentences a second time. Then he turned, mechanically, to the title page of the book-- "The French Revolution, a History. "by Thomas Carlyle." Suddenly, with the open book still in his hand, the King sank down on to the sofa. This could not be chance. This was not a coincidence. This was no accident. Uncle Bond had called his attention to the book--a book which might interest him! It was Uncle Bond's pencil which had scored these sentences, so apposite to his own position, so heavily. Uncle Bond must have left the book, open at this page, on the window sill, deliberately. The inference was unmistakable. Uncle Bond knew who he was! And that was not all. Uncle Bond must know something, at least, about the existing crisis! A storm of clamorous questions jostled each other in the King's brain. How did Uncle Bond know? How long had he known? And Judith--did Judith know, too? Why had Uncle Bond chosen this particular moment, and this particular way, to reveal his knowledge? Had the little man's uncanny, unerring instinct told him that he himself was about to reveal his real identity, at last? No. That was impossible. Uncle Bond had marked the sentences, and placed the book on the window sill, before he himself had entered the room.