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It was a young man, smart, distinguished-looking, very fair, wearing a long thin drooping moustache: movements and appearance spoke his profession: an officer in mufti, beyond question. Fandor once more encircled the house; he had reached the door opening on to the Avenue de la Tour-Maubourg when he saw a confectioner's boy slip into the house.
But the King, being drunk, was easily overpowered and bound. That is the reason he did not reach his hotel." One difficulty still troubled the detective. It had been shown that on the night of December 31st, the third person, otherwise the King, whom Fandor declared to be in the apartment, had been unable to escape by the back stairs, since the door was locked and bolted.
I will come straight to the point I am here to extricate you from that position." Fandor caught de Naarboveck's hands in his, and pressed them warmly. "Can what you tell me be true?" he exclaimed.
Fandor tapped on the glass with his cane, got out, paid the driver and made his way to the house where Juve lived. He still had his pass-key and let himself in, calling: "Hello! Juve, are you in?" There was no answer, so Fandor sat at Juve's desk and wrote a long letter, then tracing a diagram upon another sheet, he put them into an envelope addressed to "Monsieur Juve Urgent."
"All right, all right," growled Fandor, "take it." She then handed him a pen and asked him to write a dedication. "No, I'll be hanged if I do," cried Fandor. Then seeing that the young girl was beginning to cry again, he added: "My dear Marie Pascal, I am very sorry but it is against the rule for me to write a single word on my portrait.... It is against the Constitution."
Having waded again through the icy water of the basin, Fandor carried the unconscious monarch upon his shoulders and deposited his burden on the sidewalk. He was about to regain his dungeon when he suddenly paused: "The deuce! I was forgetting! When he becomes sober again, he'll have forgotten all about his adventure ... he'll kick up a row at the Royal Palace.... I must warn him."
Involuntarily Fandor drew away from the priestly spy. The statements just made to him were of so grave a nature; the adventure in which he found himself involved was so dangerous, so nefarious, that Fandor thrilled with terror and disgust. He kept silence: he was thinking. Suddenly he saw his way clear. "Between Havre and the Nez d'Antifer I must get rid of this gun piece.
"I ... I don't understand." "Yes," insisted Fandor, "your Majesty does understand. You know that I am aware in whose presence I am standing. You are Frederick-Christian II, King of Hesse-Weimar... and I, your Majesty, am Jerome Fandor, reporter on La Capitale ... a journalist." The King did not appear to attach much importance to Fandor's words.
Fandor made as if to rise to emphasise his statement; but Corporal Vinson, far from imitating the movement, sank deeper and deeper in the large arm-chair, into which he had literally fallen a few minutes before, and with an accent of profound anguish, for he understood Fandor's desire to shorten the conversation, he cried with a groan: "Ah, Monsieur, do not send me away!
The evening before one of the clerks of the Royal Palace Hotel had informed him that his Majesty's automobile was ready. For a moment Fandor did not know what to do, but finally decided to take a chance for an outing. As soon as he had come downstairs he regretted his decision.
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