The Baron Franz von Kerber was in evening dress. He was engrossed in the examination of a faded, or discolored, document when Royson was shown into an apartment, nominally the drawing-room, which the present tenant had converted into a spacious study. An immense map of the Red Sea littoral, drawn and colored by hand, hung on one of the walls; there were several chart cases piled on a table; and a goodly number of books, mainly ancient tomes, were arranged on shelves or stacked on floor and chairs. This was the room of a worker. Von Kerber's elegant exterior was given a new element of importance by his surroundings. That was as much as Royson could note before the Baron looked up from the letter he was reading. It demanded close scrutiny, because it was written in Persi-Arabic. "Ah, glad to see you, Mr. King," he said affably. "Sit there," and he pointed to an empty chair. Dick knew that this seat in particular was selected because it would place him directly in front of a cluster of electric lights. He waited until the door was closed. "By the way," he said, "why do you call me 'King'? That is not my name, but it is rather extraordinary that you should have hit on it, because it is part of a nickname I had at school." He was fully at ease now. Poverty and anxiety can throw even a Napoleon out of gear, but Richard Royson was hard as granite in some ways, and the mere decision to go to South Africa had driven the day's distempered broodings from his mind. "I thought I heard the officer who spoke to you in Buckingham Palace Road address you as King," explained von Kerber. "Yes, that is true," admitted Royson. He felt that it would savor of the ridiculous, in his present circumstances, were he to state his nickname in full and explain the significance of it. In fact, he was resolved to accept the five-pound note which the Baron would probably offer him, and be thankful for it. Hence, the pseudonym rather soothed his pride. Von Kerber placed the Arabic scrawl under a paperweight. He was a man who plumed himself on a gift of accurate divination. Such a belief is fatal. For the third time that day, he misunderstood the Englishman's hesitancy. "What's in a name?" he quoted, smilingly. "Suppose I continue to call you King? It is short, and easily remembered, and your English names puzzle me more than your language, which is difficult enough, yes?" "Then we can leave it at that," agreed Royson. "I thought so. Well, to come to business. What can you do?" "It would be better, perhaps, if you told me what you want me to do." "Can you ride?" "Yes." "Have you ever been to sea?"