“No,” I replied, engineering my restive charger to the discomfiture of the second cousin, “we will work together for Ertaria, Prince.” I held out my hand, and in a moment the white-haired old fellow was off his horse and kneeling, kissing my hand. How the populace roared aloud their pleasure! The bands crashed out the national anthem, ladies fluttered their scarfs, a whole forest of hats waved in the air. I was King, and apparently popular. It was an exhilarating feeling. I thought of the real Paul shut up in a satinwood cabin on board a kicking little steam yacht, and smiled. The Prince and I took the salute; he reined in to a respectful distance. Afterward I was conducted to the landau. The Prince stayed a moment to speak to the second cousin. I rode up alone and dismounted. “Have you no welcome for the King, Princess Marie?” I asked. “You know me? My father told you?” Her voice was serene, low, like silver bells on a summer evening. “No. The Prince has said nothing. But I knew that the Princess Marie was the most beautiful woman in Ertaria.” She smiled at me. I met her smiling eyes. It was then I regretted that I was merely playing a part. The small child had grown into a wondrously beautiful woman. I know that from the moment my eyes met hers in that long look I loved her. Hers were eloquent also, so eloquent that she veiled them quickly with long, thick, black, curling lashes, and the rich color mounted to her cheek. “But Your Majesty,” the Russian’s lips curled in a sneer, “has seen the Princess’s photograph.” “One has no conception of sunlight from observation of the moon, Baron,” I answered. “And you are really the King, Paul V.” His voice was challenging, his eyes were gleaming with anger. The elaborate and desperate project of kidnapping the Prince had failed at the very moment of its success. In his pocket, I thought, were the particulars of Paul’s involuntary voyage, and yet here was a king to thwart all his plans. “And you are really the Baron Ivaniski—of Berlin?” He grew white to the lips at the concealed threat in my voice. “Of Berlin?” he faltered. “I have no connection with Berlin.” “Your memory is short, Baron. In November of ’84 you were surely in Berlin. I believe, if I tried, I could persuade you of that. Lord Derwenthurst was a friend of mine.” “Ah, yes, I had forgotten,” he muttered. I could have laughed at him, he had become so craven and so cringing. Uncle John had told me of the Baron and his gambling debts, and his attempt to sell a Russian secret to us. Uncle John was too honest for a diplomat. He refused, and extracted from the young attaché a signed declaration of his treason. The alternative was that of forwarding the proposal to the Russian Ambassador. Riding to the palace with my granite General, he expressed approval of my day’s work.