"The king is a paralytic, Monsieur, and has little to say these days."
"A paralytic? I thought he was called `the handsome monarch'?"
"That was years ago, Monsieur. For three years he has been
helpless and bedridden. The archbishop is the real king nowadays.
But he meddles not with the police."
"This is very sad. I suppose it would be impossible for
strangers to see him now."
"An audience?" a sparkle behind the spectacles. "Is your
business with the king, Monsieur?"
"My business is mine," shortly. "I am only a tourist, and should
have liked to see the king from mere curiosity. However, had you
explained all this to me, I should not have caused you so many
gray hairs."
"Monsieur did not give me the chance," simply.
"True," the Englishman replied soberly. He began to think that
he had been over hasty in asserting his privileges. "But all
this has nothing to do with me. My name is John Hamilton. See,
it is engraved on the stock of the gun," catching it up and
holding it under the spectacled eyes, which still observed it
with some trepidation. "That is the name in my passports, in the
book down stairs, in the lining of my hat.
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