“Yes,” said Anthony. “And it did for him too, poor beggar. She was some little guttersnipe of a music hall artiste in Paris—not even suitable for a morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her, and she was all out for being a Queen. Sounds fantastic, but they managed it somehow. Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something, and pretended she had Romanoff blood in her veins. Nicholas married her in the Cathedral at Ekarest with a couple of unwilling Arch-bishops to do the job, and she was crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his Ministers, and I suppose he thought that was all that mattered—but he forgot to reckon with the populace. They’re very aristocratic and reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They like their Kings and Queens to be the genuine article. There were mutterings and discontent, and the usual ruthless suppressions, and the final uprising which stormed the Palace, murdered the King and Queen, and proclaimed a Republic. It’s been a Republic ever since—but things still manage to be pretty lively there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a President or two, just to keep their hand in. But _revenons à nos moutons_. You had got to where Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.” “Yes. Well, that was the end of that business. I came back to Africa and never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I got a queer-looking parcel which had been following me all over the place for the Lord knows how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count Stylptitch had recently died in Paris. Well, this parcel contained his Memoirs—or Reminiscences, or whatever you call the things. There was a note enclosed to the effect that if I delivered the manuscript at a certain firm of publishers in London on or before October 13 they were instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.” “A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?” “I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in Princes or Politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing to the way the manuscript had been following me around, I had no time to lose. It was a pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to the interior, and I’d set my heart on going. I shan’t get such a good chance again.” “You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot of mythical gold.” “And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and everything, on the way to Cape Town—and then you blow along!” Anthony got up and lit a cigarette. “I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold hunting as planned, and I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?” “What do you say to a quarter?” “Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?” “That’s it.” “Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would have gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, _you_ won’t die in your bed counting up your bank balance.” “Anyway, it’s a deal?”