Chapter V: Part TWO: IX. a Bird in Hand (1)

Konrad Karl II. lost his crown and became a king in exile when Megalia became a republic. He was the victim of an ordinary revolution which took place in 1918, and was, therefore, in no way connected with the great war. Konrad Karl was anxious that this fact should be widely known. He did not wish to be mistaken for a member of the group of royalties who came to grief through backing the Germanic powers.

Like many other dethroned kings he made his home in England. He liked London life and prided himself on his mastery of the English language, which he spoke fluently, using slang and colloquial phrases whenever he could drag them in. He was an amiable and friendly young man, very generous when he had any money and entirely free from that pride and exclusiveness which is the fault of many European kings. He would have been a popular member of English society if it had not been for his connection with Madame Corinne Ypsilante, a lady of great beauty but little reputation. The king, who was sincerely attached to her, could never be induced to see that a lady of that kind must be kept in the background. Indeed it would not have been easy to conceal Madame Ypsilante. She was a lady who showed up wherever she went, and she went everywhere with the king. English society could neither ignore nor tolerate her. So English society, a little regretfully, dropped King Konrad Karl.

He did not much regret the loss of social position. He and Madame lived very comfortably in a suite of rooms at Beaufort’s, which, as everyone knows, is the most luxurious and most expensive hotel in London. Their most intimate friend was Mr. Michael Gorman, M.P. for Upper Offaly. He was a broad-minded man with no prejudice against ladies like Madame Ypsilante. He had a knowledge of the by-ways of finance which made him very useful to the king; for Konrad Karl, though he lived in Beaufort’s Hotel, was by no means a rich man. The Crown revenues of Megalia, never very large, were seized by the Republic at the time of the revolution, and the king had no private fortune. He succeeded in carrying off the Crown jewels when he left the country; but his departure was so hurried that he carried off nothing else. His tastes were expensive, and Madame Ypsilante was a lady of lavish habits. The Crown jewels of Megalia did not last long. It was absolutely necessary for the king to earn, or otherwise acquire, money from time to time, and Michael Gorman was as good as any man in London at getting money in irregular ways.

It was Gorman, for instance, who started the Near Eastern Wine Growers’ Association. It prospered for a time because it was the only limited liability company which had a king on its Board of Directors. It failed in the end because the wine was so bad that nobody could drink it. It was Gorman who negotiated the sale of the Island of Salissa to a wealthy American. Madame Ypsilante got her famous pearl necklace out of the price of the island. It was partly because the necklace was very expensive that King Konrad Karl found himself short of money again within a year of the sale of the island. The moment was a particularly unfortunate one. Owing to the war it was impossible to start companies or sell islands.

Things came to a crisis when Emile, the Bond Street dressmaker, refused to supply Madame with an evening gown which she particularly wanted. It was a handsome garment, and Madame was ready to promise to pay £100 for it. Mr. Levinson, the business manager of Emile’s, said that further credit was impossible, when Madame’s bill already amounted to £680. His position was, perhaps, reasonable. It was certainly annoying. Madame, after a disagreeable interview with him, returned to Beaufort’s Hotel in a very bad temper.

Gorman was sitting with the king when she stormed into the room. Hers was one of those simple untutored natures which make little attempt to conceal emotion. She flung her muff into a corner of the room. She tore the sable stole from her shoulders and sent it whirling towards the fireplace. Gorman was only just in time to save it from being burnt. She dragged a long pin from her hat and brandished it as if it had been a dagger.

“Konrad,” she said, “I demand that at once the swine-dog be killed and cut into small bits by the knives of executioners.”

There was a large china jar standing on the floor near the fireplace, one of those ornaments which give their tone of sumptuousness to the rooms in Beaufort’s Hotel. Madame rushed at it and kicked it. When it broke she trampled on the pieces. She probably wished to show the size of the bits into which the business manager of Emile’s ought to be minced.

Gorman sought a position of safety behind a large table. He had once before seen Madame deeply moved and he felt nervous. The king, who was accustomed to her ways, spoke soothingly.

“My beloved Corinne,” he said, “who is he, this pig? Furnish me forthwith by return with an advice note of the name of the defendant.”

The king’s business and legal experience had taught him some useful phrases, which he liked to air when he could; but his real mastery of the English language was best displayed by his use of current slang.

“We shall at once,” he went on, “put him up the wind, or is it down the wind? Tell me, Gorman. No. Do not tell me. I have it. We will put the wind up him.”

“If possible,” said Gorman.

Madame turned on him.

“Possible!” she said. “It is possible to kill a rat. Possible! Is not Konrad a king?”

“Even kings can’t cut people up in that sort of way,” said Gorman, “especially just now when the world is being made safe for democracy. Still if you tell us who the man is we’ll do what we can to him.”

“He is a toad, an ape, a cur-cat with mange, that manager of Emile,” said Madame. “He said to me ‘no, I make no evening gown for Madame.’”

“Wants to be paid, I suppose,” said Gorman. “They sometimes do.”

“Alas, Corinne,” said the king, “and if I give him a cheque the bank will say ‘Prefer it in a drawer.’ They said it last time. Or perhaps it was ‘Refer it to a drawer.’ I do not remember. But that is what the bank will do. Gorman, my friend, it is as the English say all O.K. No, that is what it is not. It is U.P. Well. I have lived. I am a King. There is always poison. I can die. Corinne, farewell.”

The king drew himself up to his full height, some five foot six, and looked determined.

“Don’t talk rot,” said Gorman. “You are not at the end of your tether yet.”

The king maintained his heroic pose for a minute. Then he sat down on a deep chair and sank back among the cushions.

“Gorman,” he said, “you are right. It is rot, what you call dry rot, to die. And there is more tether, perhaps. You say so, and I trust you, my friend. But where is it, the tether beyond the end?”

Madame, having relieved her feelings by breaking the china jar to bits, suddenly became gentle and pathetic. She flung herself on to the floor at Gorman’s feet and clasped his knees.

“You are our friend,” she said, “now and always. Oh Gorman, Sir Gorman, M.P., drag out more tether so that my Konrad does not die.”

Gorman disliked emotional scenes very much. He persuaded Madame to sit on a chair instead of the floor. He handed her a cigarette. The king, who understood her thoroughly, sent for some liqueur brandy and filled a glass for her.

“Now,” he said. “Trot up, cough out, tell on, Gorman. Where is the tether which has no end? How am I to raise the dollars, shekels, oof? You have a plan, Gorman. Make it work.”

“My plan,” said Gorman, “ought to work. I don’t say it’s a gold mine, but there’s certainly money in it I came across a man yesterday called Bilkins, who’s made a pile, a very nice six figure pile out of eggs--contracts, you know, war prices, food control and all the usual ramp.”

“Alas,” said the king, “I have no eggs, not one. I cannot ramp.”

“I don’t expect you to try,” said Gorman. “As a matter of fact I don’t think the thing could be done twice. Bilkins only just pulled it off. My idea----”

“I see it,” said Madame. “We invite the excellent Bilkins to dinner. We are gay. He and we. There is a little game with cards. Konrad and I are more than a match for Bilkins. That is it, Gorman. It goes.”

“That’s not it in the least,” said Gorman. “Bilkins isn’t that kind of man at all. He’s a rabid teetotaller for one thing, and he’s extremely religious. He wouldn’t play for anything bigger than a sixpence, and you’d spend a year taking a ten-pound note off him.”

“Hell and the devil, Gorman,” said the king, “if I have no eggs to ramp and if Bilkins will not play----”

“Wait a minute,” said Gorman, “I told you that Bilkins’ egg racket was a bit shady. He wasn’t actually prosecuted; but his character wants white-washing badly, and the man knows it.”

The king sighed heavily.

“Alas, Gorman,” he said, “it would be of no use for us to wash Bilkins. Corinne and I, if we tried to washwhite, that is, I should say, to whitewash, the man afterwards would be only more black. We are not respectable, Corinne and I. It is no use for Bilkins to come to us.”

“That’s so,” said Gorman. “I don’t suppose a certificate from me would be much good either. Bilkins’ own idea--he feels his position a good deal--is that if he could get a title--knighthood for instance--or even an O.B.E., it would set him up again; but they won’t give him a thing. He has paid handsomely into the best advertised charities and showed me the receipts himself--and handed over £10,000 to the party funds, giving £5,000 to each party to make sure; and now he feels he’s been swindled. They won’t do it--can’t, I suppose. The eggs were too fishy.”

“I should not care,” said the king, “if all the eggs were fishes. If I were a party and could get £5,000. But I am not a party, Gorman, I am a king.”

“Exactly,” said Gorman, “and it’s kings who give those things, the things Bilkins wants. Isn’t there a Megalian Order--Pink Vulture or something?”

“Gorman, you have hit it,” said the king delightedly. “You have hit the eye of the bull, and the head of the nail. I can give an order, I can say ‘Bilkins, you are Grand Knight of the Order of the Pink Vulture of Megalia, First Class.’ Gorman, it is done. I give. Bilkins pays. The world admires the honourableness of the Right Honourable Sir Bilkins. His character is washed white. Ah, Corinne, my beloved, you shall spit in the face of the manager of Emile’s. I said I cannot ramp. I have no eggs. I was wrong. The Vulture of Megalia lays an egg for Bilkins.”

“You’ve got the idea,” said Gorman. “But we can’t rush the thing. Your Pink Vulture is all right, of course. I’m not saying anything against it. But most people in this country have never heard of it, and consequently it wouldn’t be of much use to a man of Bilkin’s position. The first thing we’ve got to do is to advertise the fowl; get it fluttering before the public eye. If you leave that part to me I’ll manage it all right. I’ve been connected with the press for years.”

Three days later it was announced in most of the London papers that the King of Megalia had bestowed the Order of the Pink Vulture on Sir Bland Potterton, His Majesty’s Minister for Balkan Affairs, in recognition of his services to the Allied cause in the Near East. Sir Bland Potterton was in Roumania when the announcement appeared and he did not hear of his new honour for nearly three weeks. When he did hear of it he refused it curtly.

In the meanwhile the Order was bestowed on two Brigadier Generals and three Colonels, all on active service in remote parts of the world. Little pictures of the star and ribbon of the Order appeared in the back pages of illustrated papers, and there were short articles in the Sunday papers which gave a history of the Order, describing it as the most ancient in Europe, and quoting the names of eminent men who had won the ribbon of the Order in times past. The Duke of Wellington, Lord Nelson, William the Silent, Galileo, Christopher Columbus, and the historian Gibbon appeared on the list. The Order was next bestowed on an Admiral, who held a command in the South Pacific, and on M. Clemenceau.

After that Gorman dined with the King.

The dinner, as is always the case in Beaufort’s Hotel, was excellent. The wine was good. Madame Ypsilante wore a dress which, as she explained, was more than three months old.

Emile, it appeared, was still pressing for payment of the bill and refused to supply any more clothes. However, neither age nor custom had staled the splendour of the purple velvet gown and the jewellery--Madame Ypsilante always wore a great deal of jewellery--was dazzling.

The king seemed a little uneasy, and after dinner spoke to Gorman about the Megalian Order of the Pink Vulture.

“You are magnificent, Gorman,” he said, “and your English press! Ah, my friend, if you had been Prime Minister in Megalia, and if there had been newspapers, I might to-day be sitting on the throne, though I do not want to, not at all. The throne of Megalia is what you call a hot spot. But my friend is it wise? There must be someone who knows that the Pink Vulture of Megalia is not an antique. It is, as the English say, mid-Victorian. 1865, Gorman. That is the date; and someone will know that.”

“I daresay,” said Gorman, “that there may be two or three people who know; but they haven’t opened their mouths so far and before they do we ought to have Bilkins’ checque safe.”

“How much?” said Madame. “That is the thing which matters.”

“After he’s read the list of distinguished men who held the order in the past and digested the names of all the generals and people who’ve just been given it, we may fairly expect £5,000. We’ll screw him up a bit if we can, but we won’t take a penny less. Considering the row there’ll be afterwards, when Bilkins finds out, we ought to get £10,000. It will be most unpleasant, and it’s bound to come. Most of the others will refuse the Order as soon as they hear they’ve been given it, and Bilkins will storm horribly and say he has been swindled, not that there is any harm in swindling Bilkins. After that egg racket of his he deserves to be swindled. Still it won’t be nice to have to listen to him.”

“Bah!” said Madame, “we shall have the cash.”

“And it was not I,” said the king, “who said that the Duke of Wellington wore the Pink Vulture. It was not Corinne. It was not you, Gorman, It was the newspapers. When Bilkins come to us we say ‘Bah! Go to _The Times_, Sir Bilkins, go to _The Daily Mail_.’ There is no more for Bilkins to say then.”

“One comfort,” said Gorman, “is that he can’t take a legal action of any kind.”

Their fears were, as it turned out, unfounded. Bilkins, having paid, not £5,000 but £6,000, for the Megalian Order, was not anxious to advertise the fact that he had made a bad bargain. Indeed he may be said to have got good value for his money. He has not many opportunities of wearing the ribbon and the star; but he describes himself on his visiting cards and at the head of his business note paper as “Sir Timothy Bilkins, K.C.O.P.V.M.” Nobody knows what the letters stand for, and it is generally believed that Bilkins has been knighted in the regular way for services rendered to the country during the war. The few who remember his deal in eggs are forced to suppose that the stories told about that business at the time were slander. Lady Bilkins, who was present at the ceremony of in-vesture, often talks of the “dear King and Queen of Megalia.” Madame Ypsilante can, when she chooses, look quite like a real queen.

X. THE EMERALD PENDANT

Even as a schoolboy, Bland-Potterton was fussy and self-important. At the university--Balliol was his college--he was regarded as a coming man, likely to make his mark in the world. This made him more fussy and more self-important. When he became a recognised authority on Near Eastern affairs he became pompous and more fussy than ever. His knighthood, granted in 1918, and an inevitable increase in waist measurement emphasised his pompousness without diminishing his fussiness. When the craze for creating new departments of state was at its height, Bland-Potterton, then Sir Bartholomew, was made Head of the Ministry for Balkan Affairs. It was generally felt that the right man had been put into the right place. Sir Bartholomew looked like a Minister, talked like a Minister, and, what is more important, felt like a Minister. Indeed he felt like a Cabinet Minister, though he had not yet obtained that rank. Sir Bartholomew’s return from Bournmania was duly advertised in the newspapers. Paragraphs appeared every day for a week hinting at a diplomatic coup which would affect the balance of power in the Balkans and materially shorten the war. Gorman, who knew Sir Bartholomew well, found a good deal of entertainment in the newspaper paragraphs. He had been a journalist himself for many years. He understood just whom the paragraphs came from and how they got into print. He was a little surprised, but greatly interested, when he received a note from Sir Bartholomew.

“My dear Mr. Gorman,” he read, “can you make it convenient to lunch with me one day next week? Shall we say in my room in the office of the Ministry--the Feodora Hotel, Piccadilly--at 1.30 p.m. There is a matter of some importance--of considerable national importance--about which we are most anxious to obtain your advice and your help. Will you fix the earliest possible day? The condition of the Near East demands--urgently demands--our attention. I am, my dear Mr. Gorman, yours, etc....”

Gorman without hesitation fixed Monday, which is the earliest day in any week except Sunday, and he did not suppose that the offices of the Ministry of Balkan Affairs would be open on Sunday.

It is not true, though it is frequently said, that Sir Bartholomew retained the services of the chef of the Feodora Hotel when he took over the building for the use of his Ministry. It is well known that Sir Bartholomew--in his zeal for the public service--often lunched in his office and sometimes invited men whom he wanted to see on business, to lunch with him. They reported that the meals they ate were uncommonly good, as the meals of a Minister of State certainly ought to be. It was no doubt in this way that the slanderous story about the chef arose and gained currency. Gorman did not believe it, because he knew that the Feodora chef had gone to Beaufort’s Hotel when the other was taken over by the Government. But Gorman fully expected a good luncheon, nicely served in one of the five rooms set apart for Sir Bartholomew’s use in the hotel.

He was not disappointed. The sole was all that anyone could ask. The salmi which followed it was good, and even the Feodora chef could not have sent up a better rum omelette.

Sir Bartholomew was wearing a canary-coloured waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons.

It seemed to Gorman that the expanse of yellow broadened as luncheon went on. Perhaps it actually did. Perhaps an atmosphere of illusion was created by the port which followed an excellent bottle of sauterne. Yellow is a cheerful colour, and Sir Bartholomew’s waistcoat increased the vague feeling of hopeful well-being which the luncheon produced.

“Affairs in the Near East,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are at present in a critical position.”

“Always are, aren’t they?” said Gorman. “Some affairs are like that, Irish affairs for instance.”

Sir Bartholomew frowned slightly. He hated levity. Then the good wine triumphing over the dignity of the bureaucrat, he smiled again.

“You Irishmen!” he said. “No subject is serious for you. That is your great charm. But I assure you, Mr. Gorman, that we are at this moment passing through a crisis.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help you--” said Gorman. “A crisis is nothing to me. I have lived all my life in the middle of one. That’s the worst of Ireland. Crisis is her normal condition.”

“I think----” Sir Bartholomew lowered his voice although there was no one in the room to overhear him. “I think, Mr. Gorman, that you are acquainted with the present King of Megalia.”

“If you mean Konrad Karl,” said Gorman, “I should call him the late king. They had a revolution there, you know, and hunted him out, I believe Megalia is a republic _now_.”

“None of the Great Powers,” said Sir Bartholomew, “has ever recognised the Republic of Megalia.”

He spoke as if what he said disposed of the Megalians finally. The front of his yellow waistcoat expanded when he mentioned the Great Powers. This was only proper. A man who speaks with authority about Great Powers ought to swell a little.

“The Megalian people,” he went on, “have hitherto preserved a strict neutrality.”

“So the king gave me to understand,” said Gorman, “He says his late subjects go about and plunder their neighbours impartially. They don’t mind a bit which side anybody is on so long as there is a decent chance of loot.”

“The Megalians,” said Sir Bartholomew, “are a fighting race, and in the critical position of Balkan Affairs--a delicate equipoise--” He seemed taken with the phrase for he repeated it--“A remarkably delicate equipoise--the intervention of the Megalian Army would turn the scale and--I feel certain--decide the issue. All that is required to secure the action of the Megalians is the presence in the country of a leader, someone whom the people know and recognise, someone who can appeal to the traditional loyalty of a chivalrous race, in short----”

“You can’t be thinking of the late king?” said Gorman. “They’re not the least loyal to him. They deposed him, you know. In fact by his account--I wasn’t there myself at the time--but he told me that they tried to hang him. He says that if they ever catch him they certainly will hang him. He doesn’t seem to have hit it off with them.”

Sir Bartholomew waved these considerations aside.

“An emotional and excitable people,” he said, “but, believe me, Mr. Gorman, warm-hearted, and capable of devotion to a trusted leader. They will rally round the king, if----”

“I’m not at all sure,” said Gorman, “that the king will care about going there to be rallied round. It’s a risk, whatever you say.”

“I appreciate that point,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Indeed it is just because I appreciate it so fully that I am asking for your advice and help, Mr. Gorman. You know the king. You are, I may say, his friend.”

“Pretty nearly the only friend he has,” said Gorman.

“Exactly. Now I, unfortunately--I fear that the king rather dislikes me.”

“You weren’t at all civil to him when he offered you the Order of the Pink Vulture; but I don’t think he has any grudge against you on that account. He’s not the sort of man who bears malice. The real question is--what is the king to get out of it? What are you offering him?”

“The Allies,” said Sir Bartholomew, “would recognise him as the King of Megalia, and--er--of course, support him.”

“I don’t think he’d thank you for that,” said Gorman, “but you can try him if you like.”

Sir Bartholomew, on reflection, was inclined to agree with Gorman. Mere recognition, though agreeable to any king, is unsubstantial, and the support suggested was evidently doubtful.

“What else?” He spoke in a very confidential tone. “What other inducement would you suggest our offering? We are prepared to go a long way--to do a good deal----”

“Unfortunately for you,” said Gorman, “the king is pretty well off at present. He got £6,000 three weeks ago out of Bilkins--the man who ran the egg swindle--and until that’s spent he won’t feel the need of money. If you could wait six weeks--I’m sure he’ll be on the rocks again in six weeks--and then offer a few thousand----”

“But we can’t wait,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Affairs in the Near East are most critical. Unless the Megalian Army acts at once----”

“In that case,” said Gorman, “the only thing for you to do is to try Madame Ypsilante.”

“That woman!” said Sir Bartholomew. “I really cannot---- You must see, Mr. Gorman, that for a man in my position----”

“Is there a Lady Bland-Potterton?” said Gorman. “I didn’t know.”

“I’m not married,” said Sir Bartholomew. “When I speak of my position--I mean my position as a member of the Government----”

“Madame has immense influence with the king,” said Gorman.

“Yes. Yes. But the woman--the--er--lady has no recognised status. She----”

“Just at present,” said Gorman, “she is tremendously keen on emeralds. She has got a new evening dress from Emile and there’s nothing she wants more than an emerald pendant to wear with it. I’m sure she’d do her best to persuade the king to go back to Megalia if----”

“But I don’t think--” said Sir Bartholomew. “Really, Mr. Gorman----”

“I’m not suggesting that you should pay for it yourself,” said Gorman. “Charge it up against the Civil List or the Secret Service Fund, or work it in under ‘Advances to our Allies.’ There must be some way of doing it, and I really think it’s your best chance.”

Sir Bartholomew talked for nearly an hour. He explained several times that it was totally impossible for him to negotiate with Madame Ypsilante. The idea of bribing her with an emerald pendant shocked him profoundly. But he was bent on getting King Konrad Karl to go back to Megalia. That seemed to him a matter of supreme importance for England, for Europe and the world. In the end, after a great deal of consultation, a plan suggested itself. Madame should have her emeralds sent to her anonymously. Gorman undertook to explain to her that she was expected, by way of payment for the emeralds, to persuade the king to go back to Megalia and once more occupy the throne. Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton would appear at the last moment as the accredited representative of the Allied Governments, and formally lay before the king the proposal for the immediate mobilisation of the Megallian Army.

“I shall have a lot of work and worry,” said Gorman, “and I’m not asking anything for myself; but if the thing comes off----”

“You can command the gratitude of the Cabinet,” said Sir Bartholomew, “and anything they can do for you--an O.B.E., now, or even a knighthood------”

“No thank you,” said Gorman, “but if you could see your way to starting a few munition works in Upper Offaly, my constituency, you know. The people are getting discontented, and I’m not at all sure that they’ll return me at the next election unless something is done for them now.”

“You shall have an aeroplane factory,” said Sir Bartholomew, “two in fact. I think I may safely promise two--and shells--would your people care for making shells?”

The plan worked out exceedingly well. The pendant which Madame Ypsilante received was very handsome. It contained fourteen stones of unusual size set in circles of small diamonds. She was delighted, and thoroughly understood what was expected of her. A Government engineer went down to Upper Offaly, and secured, at enormous expense, sites for three large factories. The men who leased the land were greatly pleased, everyone else looked forward to a period of employment at very high wages, and Gorman became very popular even among the extreme Sinn Feiners. Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton went about London, purring with satisfaction like a large cat, and promising sensational events in the Near East which would rapidly bring the war to an end. Only King Konrad Karl was a little sad.

“Gorman, my friend,” he said, “I go back to that thrice damned country and I die. They will hang me by the neck until I am dead as a door mat.”

“They may not,” said Gorman. “You can’t be certain.”

“You do not know Megalia,” said the king. “It is sure, Gorman, what you would call a dead shirt. But Corinne, my beloved Corinne, says ‘Go. Be a king once more.’ And I--I am a blackguard, Gorman. I know it. I am not respectable. I know it. But I am a lover. I am capable of a great passion. I wave my hand. I smile. I kiss Corinne. I face the tune of the band. I say ‘Behold, damn it, and Great Scott!--at the bidding of Corinne, I die.’”

“If I were you,” said Gorman, “I’d conscript every able-bodied man in the country directly I got there and put the entire lot into a front line trench. There won’t be anyone left to assassinate you then.”

“Alas! There are the Generals and the Staff. It is not possible, Gorman, even in Megalia, to put the Staff into a trench, and that is enough. One General only and his Staff. They come to the palace. They say ‘In the name of the Republic, so that the world may be safe for democracy--’ and then--! There is a rope. There is a flag staff. I float in the air. They cheer. I am dead. I know it. But it is for Corinne. Good.”

It was in this mood of chivalrous high romance that the king received Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton. Gorman was present during the interview. He had made a special effort, postponing an important engagement, in order to hear what was said. He expected to be interested and amused. He was not disappointed.

Sir Bartholomew Bland-Potterton was at his very best. He made a long speech about the sacred cause of European civilisation, and the supremely important part which the King of Megalia was called upon to play in securing victory and lasting peace. He also talked about the rights of small nationalities. King Konrad Karl rose to the same level of lofty sentiment in his reply. He went further than Sir Bartholomew for he talked about democracy in terms which were affectionate, a rather surprising thing for a monarch whose power, when he had it, was supposed to be absolute.

“I go,” he said. “If necessary I offer up myself as a fatted calf, a sacrifice, a burnt ewe lamb upon the altar of liberty. I say to the people--to my people ‘Damn it, cut off my head.’ It’s what they will do.”

“Dear me,” said Sir Bartholomew. “Dear me. I trust not. I hope not. You will have the support, the moral support, of all the Allies. I should be sorry to think--we should all be sorry----”

The king, who was standing in the middle of the hearthrug, struck a fine attitude, laying his hand on his breast.

“It will be as I say,” he said. “Gorman knows. Corinne, though she says ‘No, no, never,’ she knows. The people of Megalia, what are they? I will tell you. Butchers and pigs. Pork butchers. To them it is sport to kill a king. But you say ‘Go,’ and Gorman says ‘Go.’ And the cause of Europe says ‘Go.’ And Corinne she also. Good. The Prime Minister of Megalia trots out his hatchet. I say ‘By Jove, here is my neck.”

Sir Bartholomew Bland-Pottertan was greatly affected. He even promised that a British submarine would patrol the Megalian coast with a view to securing the king’s safety. He might perhaps have gone on to offer a squadron of aeroplanes by way of body-guard, but while he was speaking, Madame burst into the room.

She was evidently highly excited. Her face, beneath its coating of powder, was flushed. Her eyes were unusually bright. Her hair--a most unusual thing with her--appeared to be coming down. She rushed straight to the king and flung her arms round his neck.

“Konrad,” she said, “my Konrad. You shall not go to Megalia. Never, never will I say ‘Be a King.’ Never shall you live with those so barbarous people. I said ‘Go.’ I admit it. I was wrong, my Konrad. Behold!”

She released the king from her embrace, fumbled in her handbag and drew out a small leather case. She opened it, took out a magnificent looking pendant. She flung it on the ground and trampled on it. Gorman stepped forward to rescue the emeralds.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Hang it all! Don’t. Give the thing back if you like, but don’t destroy it. Those stones must be immensely valuable.”

“Valuable!” Madame’s voice rose to a shriek. “What is valuable compared to the safety of my Konrad? Valuable? They are worth ten pounds. Ten pounds, Gorman! I took them to Goldstein to-day. He knows jewels, that Goldstein. He is expert and he said ‘They are shams. They are worth--at most ten pounds.’”

Gorman stared for a moment at the stones which lay on the floor in their crushed setting. Then he turned to Sir Bartholomew.

“You don’t mean to say,” he said, “that you were such a d----d ass as to send Madame sham stones?”

Sir Bartholomew’s face was a sufficient answer to the question. Gorman took him by the arm and led him out of the room without a word.

“You’d better go home,” he said. “Madame Ypsilante is violent when roused, and it is not safe for you to stay. But how could you have been such an idiot----!”

“I never thought of her having the stones valued,” said Sir Bartholomew.

“Of course she had them valued,” said Gorman. “Anyone else in the world would have known that she’d be sure to have them valued. Of all the besotted imbeciles--and they call you a statesman!”

Sir Bartholomew, having got safely into the street, began to recover a little, and attempted a defence of himself.

“But,” he said, “a pendant like that--emeralds of that size are enormously expensive. The Government would not have sanctioned it. After all, Mr. Gorman, we are bound to be particularly careful about the expenditure of public funds. It is one of the proudest traditions of British statesmanship that it is scrupulously honourable even to the point of being niggardly in sanctioning the expenditure of the tax-payer’s money.”

“Good Lord!” said Gorman. “I didn’t think--I really did not think that I could be surprised by anything in politics--But when you talk to me--You oughtn’t to do it, Potterton. You really ought not. Public funds. Tax-payers’ money. Scrupulously honourable, and--niggardly. Good Lord!”

XI. SETTLED OUT OF COURT

There are many solicitors in London who make larger incomes than Mr. Dane-Latimer, though he does very well and pays a considerable sum every year by way of super-tax. There are certainly solicitors with firmly established family practices, whose position is more secure than Mr. Dane-Latimer’s. And there are some whose reputation stands higher in legal circles. But there is probably no solicitor whose name is better known all over the British Isles than Mr. Dane-Latimer’s. He has been fortunate enough to become a kind of specialist in “Society” cases. No divorce suit can be regarded as really fashionable unless Mr. Dane-Latimer is acting in it for plaintiff, defendant, or co-respondent. A politician who has been libelled goes to Mr. Dane-Latimer for advice. An actress with a hopeful breach of promise case takes the incriminating letters to Mr. Dane-Latimer. He knows the facts of nearly every exciting scandal. He can fill in the gaps which the newspapers necessarily leave even in stories which spread themselves over columns of print. What is still better, he can tell stories which never get into the papers at all, the stories of cases so thrilling that the people concerned settle them out of court.

It will easily be understood that Mr. Dane-Latimer is an interesting man to meet and that a good many people welcome the chance of a talk with him.

Gorman, who has a cultivated taste for gossip, was greatly pleased when Dane-Latimer sat down beside him one day in the smoking-room of his club. It was two o’clock, an hour at which the smoking-room is full of men who have lunched. Gorman knew that Dane-Latimer would not talk in an interesting way before a large audience, but he hoped to be able to keep him until most of the other men had left. He beckoned to the waitress and ordered two coffees and two liqueur brandies. Then he set himself to be as agreeable as possible to Dane-Latimer.

“Haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “What have you been doing? Had the flu?”

“Flu! No. Infernally busy, that’s all.”

“Really,” said Gorman. “I should have thought the present slump would have meant rather a slack time for you. People--I mean the sort of people whose affairs you manage--can’t be going it in quite the old way, at all events not to the same extent.”

Dane-Latimer poured half his brandy into his coffee cup and smiled. Gorman, who felt it necessary to keep the conversation going, wandered on.

“But perhaps they are. After all, these war marriages must lead to a good many divorces, though we don’t read about them as much as we used to. But I dare say they go on just the same and you have plenty to do.”

Dane-Latimer grinned. He beckoned to the waitress and ordered two more brandies. Gorman talked on. One after another the men in the smoking-room got up and went away. At three o’clock there was no one left within earshot of Gorman and Dane-Latimer. A couple of Heads of Government Departments and a Staff Officer still sat on at the far end of the room, but they were busy with a conversation of their own about a new kind of self-starter for motor cars. Dane-Latimer began to talk at last.

“The fact is,” he said, “I shouldn’t have been here to-day--I certainly shouldn’t be sitting smoking at this hour if I hadn’t wanted to talk to you.”

Gorman chuckled pleasantly. He felt that something interesting was coming.

“I’ve rather a queer case on hand,” said Dane-Latimer, “and some friends of yours are mixed up in it, at least I think I’m right in saying that that picturesque blackguard Konrad Karl of Megalia is a friend of yours.”

“I hope he’s not the co-respondent,” said Gorman.

“No. No. It’s nothing of that sort. In fact, strictly speaking, he’s not in it at all. No legal liability. The action threatened is against Madame Ypsilante.”

“Don’t say shop lifting,” said Gorman. “I’ve always been afraid she’s take to that sooner or later. Not that she’s a dishonest woman. Don’t think that. It’s simply that she can’t understand, is constitutionally incapable of seeing any reason why she shouldn’t have anything she wants.”

“You may make your mind easy,” said Dane-Latimer. “It’s not shop-lifting. In fact it isn’t anything that would be called really disgraceful.”

“That surprises me. I should hardly have thought Madame could have avoided--but go on.

“You know Scarsby?” said Dane-Latimer.

“I know a Mrs. Scarsby, a woman who advertises herself and her parties and pushes hard to get into the smartest set. She’s invited me to one of her shows next week. Very seldom does now, though I used to go there pretty often. She has rather soared lately, higher circles than those I move in.”

“That’s the wife of the man I mean.”

“Never knew she had a husband,” said Gorman. “She keeps him very dark. But that sort of woman often keeps her husband in the background. I suppose he exists simply to earn what she spends.”

“That’s it. He’s a dentist. I rather wonder you haven’t heard of him. He’s quite at the top of the tree; the sort of dentist who charges two guineas for looking at your front tooth and an extra guinea if he tells you there’s a hole in it.”

“I expect he needs it all,” said Gorman, “to keep Mrs. Searsby going. But what the devil has he got to do with Madame Ypsilante. I can’t imagine her compromising herself with a man whose own wife is ashamed to produce him.”

Dane-Latimer smiled. “I told you it was nothing of that sort,” he said. “In fact it’s quite the opposite. Madame went to him as a patient in the ordinary way, and he started to put a gold filling into one of her teeth. She was infernally nervous and made him swear beforehand that he wouldn’t hurt her. She brought Konrad Karl with her and he held one of her hands. There was a sort of nurse, a woman whom Scarsby always has on the premises, who held her other hand. I mention this to show you that there were plenty of witnesses present, and it won’t be any use denying the facts. Well, Scarsby went to work in the usual way with one of those infernal drill things which they work with their feet. He had her right back in the chair and was standing more or less in front of her. He says he’s perfectly certain he didn’t hurt her in the least, but I think he must have got down to a nerve or something without knowing it. Anyhow Madame--she couldn’t use her hands you know--gave a sort of twist, got her foot against his chest and kicked him clean across the room.”

“I’d give five pounds to have been there,” said Gorman.

“It must have been a funny sight. Scarsby clutched at everything as he passed. He brought down the drilling machine and a table covered with instruments in his fall. He strained his wrist and now he wants to take an action for a thousand pounds damages against Madame.”

“Silly ass,” said Gorman. “He might just as well take an action against me for a million. Madame hasn’t got a thousand pence in the world.”

“So I thought,” said Dane-Latimer, “and so I told him. As a matter of fact I happen to know that Madame is pretty heavily in debt.”

“Besides,” said Gorman. “He richly deserved what he got. Any man who is fool enough to go monkeying about with Madame Ypsilante’s teeth--you’ve seen her, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. Several times.”

“Well then you can guess the sort of woman she is. And anyone who had ever looked at her eyes would know. I’d just as soon twist a tiger’s tail as try to drill a hole in one of Madame Ypsilante’s teeth. Scarsby must have known there’d be trouble.”

“I’m afraid the judge won’t take that view,” said Dane-Latimer, smiling.

“He ought to call it justifiable self-defence. He will too if he’s ever had one of those drills in his own mouth.”

“As a lawyer,” said Dane-Latimer, “I’d like to see this action fought out. I don’t remember a case quite like it, and it would be exceedingly interesting to see what view the Court would take. But of course I’m bound to work for my client’s interest, and I’m advising Scarsby to settle it if he can. He’s in a vile temper and there’s no doubt he really is losing money through not being able to work with his strained wrist. Still, if Madame, or the king on her behalf, would make any sort of offer--She may not have any money, Gorman, but everybody knows she has jewellery.”

“Do you really think,” said Gorman, “that Madame will sell her pearls to satisfy the claims of a dentist who, so far as I can make out, didn’t even finish stopping her tooth for her?”

“The law might make her.”

“The law couldn’t,” said Gorman. “You know perfectly well that if the law tried she’d simply say that her jewellery belonged to King Konrad and you’ve no kind of claim on him.”

“That’s so,” said Dane-Latimer. “All the same it won’t be very nice if the case comes into court. Madame had far better settle it. Just think of the newspapers. They’ll crack silly jokes about it for weeks and there’ll be pictures of Madame in most undignified attitudes. She won’t like it.”

“I see that,” said Gorman. “And of course Konrad Karl will be dragged in and made to look like a fool.”

“Kings of all people,” said Dane-Latimer, “can’t afford to be laughed at. It doesn’t do a king any real harm if he’s hated, but if once he becomes comic he’s done.”

Gorman thought the matter over for a minute or two.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last. “You hold the dentist in play for a day or two and I’ll see what I can do. There’ll be no money. I warn you fairly of that. You won’t even get the amount of your own bill unless Scarsby pays it; but I may be able to fix things up.”

It was not very easy for Gorman to deal with Madame Ypsilante. Her point was that Scarsby had deliberately inflicted frightful pain on her, breaking his plighted word and taking advantage of her helpless position.

“He is a devil, that man,” she said. “Never, never in life has there been any such devil. I did right to kick him. It would be more right to kick his mouth. But I am not a dancer. I cannot kick so high.”

“Corinne,” said the king. “You have suffered. He has suffered. It is, as the English say in the game of golf ‘lie as you like.’ Let us forgive and regret.”

“I do not regret,” said Madame, “except that I did not kick with both feet. I do not regret, and I will not forgive.”

“The trouble is,” said Gorman, “that the dentist won’t forgive either. He’s talking of a thousand pounds damage.”

Madame’s face softened.

“If he will pay a thousand pounds--” she said. “It is not much. It is not enough. Still, if he pays at once----”

“You’ve got it wrong,” said Gorman. “He thinks you ought to pay. He’s going to law about it.”

“Law!” said Madame. “Pouf! What is your law? I spit at it. It is to laugh at, the law.”

The king took a different view. He knew by painful experience something about law, chiefly that part of the law which deals with the relations of creditor and debtor. He was seriously alarmed at what Gorman said.

“Alas, Corinne,” he said, “in Megalia, yes. But in England, no. The English law is to me a black beast. With the law I am always the escaping goat who does not escape. Gorman, I love your England. But there is, as you say, a shift in the flute. In England there is too much law. Do not, do not let the dentist go to law. Rather would I----”

“I will not pay,” said Madame.

“Corinne,” said the king reproachfully, “would I ask it? No. But if the dentist seeks revenge I will submit. He may kick me.”

“That’s rot of course,” said Gorman. “It wouldn’t be the slightest satisfaction to Scarsby to kick you. What I was going to suggest----”

“Good!” said the king. “Right-O! O.K.! Put it there. You suggest. Always, Gorman, you suggest, and when you suggest, it is all over except to shout.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Gorman. “My plan may not work, and anyway you won’t like it. It’s not an agreeable plan at all. The only thing to be said for it is that it’s better than paying or having any more kicking. You’ll have to put yourself in my hands absolutely.”

“Gorman, my friend,” said the king, “I go in your hands. In both hands or in one hand. Rather than be plaintiff-defendant I say, ‘Gorman, I will go in your pocket.’”

“In your hands,” said Madame, “or in your arms. Sir Gorman, I trust you. I give you my Konrad into your hands. I fling myself into your arms if you wish it.”

“I don’t wish it in the least,” said Gorman. “In fact it will complicate things horribly if you do.”

Three days later Gorman called on Dane-Latimer at his office.

“I think,” he said, “that I’ve got that little trouble between Madame Ypsilante and the dentist settled up all right.”

“Are you sure?” said Dane-Latimer. “Scarsby is still in a furious temper. At least he was the day before yesterday. I haven’t seen him since then.”

“You won’t see him again,” said Gorman. “He has completely climbed down.”

“How the deuce did you manage it?”

Gorman drew a heavy square envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to Dane-Latimer.

“That’s for you,” he said, “and if you really want to understand how the case was settled you’d better accept the invitation and come with me.”

Dane-Latimore opened the envelope and drew out a large white card with gilt edges and nicely rounded corners.

“10 Beaulieu Gardens, S.W.” he read. “Mrs. J. de Montford Scarsby. At Home, Thursday, June 24, 9 to 11. To have the honour of meeting His Majesty the King of Megalia. R.S.V.P.”

“The king,” said Gorman, “is going in his uniform as Field Marshal of the Megalian Army. It took me half an hour to persuade him to do that, and I don’t wonder. It’s a most striking costume--light blue silk blouse, black velvet gold-embroidered waistcoat, white corded breeches, immense patent leather boots, a gold chain as thick as a cable of a small yacht with a dagger at the end of it, and a bright red fur cap with a sham diamond star in front. The poor man will look an awful ass, and feel it. I wouldn’t have let him in for the uniform if I could possibly have helped it, but that brute Scarsby was as vindictive as a red Indian and as obstinate as a swine. His wife could do nothing with him at first. She came to me with tears and said she’d have to give up the idea of entertaining the king at her party if his coming depended on Scarsby’s withdrawing his action against Madame Ypsilante. I told her to have another try and promised her he’d come in uniform if she succeeded. That induced her to tackle her husband again. I don’t know how she managed it, but she did. Scarsby has climbed down and doesn’t even ask for an apology. I advise you to come to the party.”

“Will Madame Ypsilante be there?”

“I hope not,” said Gorman. “I shall persuade her to stay at home if I can. I don’t know whether Scarsby will show up or not; but it’s better to take no risks. She might kick him again.”

“What I was wondering,” said Dane-Latimer, “was whether she’d kick me. She might feel that she ought to get a bit of her own back out of the plaintiff’s solicitor. I’m not a tall man. She could probably reach my face, and I don’t want to have Scarsby mending up my teeth afterwards.”

“My impression is,” said Gorman, “that Mrs. Scarsby would allow anyone to kick her husband up and down Piccadilly if she thought she’d be able to entertain royalty afterwards. I don’t think she ever got higher than a Marquis before. By the way, poor Konrad Karl is to have a throne at the end of her drawing-room, and I’m to present her. You really ought to come, Dane-Latimer.”

XII. A COMPETENT MECHANIC

The car swept across the narrow bridge and round the corner beyond it. Geoffrey Dane opened the throttle a little and allowed the speed to increase. The road was new to him, but he had studied his map carefully and he knew that a long hill, two miles or more of it, lay before him. His car was highly powered and the engine was running smoothly. He looked forward to a swift, exhilarating rush from the river valley behind him to the plateau of the moorlands above. The road was a lonely one. Since he left a village, three miles behind him, he had met nothing but one cart and a couple of stray cattle. It was very unlikely that he would meet any troublesome traffic before he reached the outskirts of Hamley, the market town six miles beyond the hill and the moorland. The car swept forward, gathering speed. Geoffrey Dane saw the hand of his speedometer creep round the dial till it showed forty miles an hour.