He was
breathing hard.
"Herr Carewe?"
"Yes. What's wanted?"
"Herr Hamilton--"
"Hamilton? O, yes. Go on."
"Herr Hamilton bade me to tell your Excellency that in returning
to the hotel he sprained his ankle, and wishes to know if Herr
would not be so kind as to spend the night with him."
"Certainly. Run down to the office, and I shall be with you
shortly." Again alone, Maurice opened his trunk. He brought
forth a pint flask of brandy, some old handkerchiefs to be used
as bandages, and a box of salve he used for bruises when on
hunting expeditions. In turning over his clothes his hand came
into contact with his old army revolver. He scratched his head.
"No, it's too much like a cannon, and there's no room for it in
my pockets." He pushed it aside, rose and slammed the lid of the
trunk. "Sprained his ankle? He wasn't gone more than an hour.
How the deuce is he to see the king to-morrow? Probably wishes
to appoint me his agent. That's it. Very well." He proceeded to
the office, where he found the messenger waiting for him. "Come
on, and put life into your steps."
Together they traversed the moonlit thoroughfare.
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