Now that he had become a King and was obliged to receive unexpected visits in that capacity, Fandor had adopted the wise precaution of making his visitors wait in the main Salon, while he retired to the adjoining study. From there, thanks to a large mirror, he could see them without being seen himself. Following this precaution he waited for the appearance of his visitor and scarcely had she set foot in the Salon when he experienced an agreeable surprise.

"Ah, there's a pretty girl."

He was right. She was charming, with her large clear blue eyes, her fair hair and slight figure.

"By Jove," thought Fandor, "here's a way to fill up my hours of solitude. It oughtn't to be hard for one in my position to get up an intrigue, and provided the lady is not too shy I can begin one of those adventures one reads of in fairy stories."

Covering his face still further with his scarf and putting on a pair of blue spectacles he entered the Salon. The young girl betrayed a slight movement of surprise upon seeing him. At his silent invitation she sat down on the edge of an armchair without daring to raise her eyes. Then followed a long pause, until Fandor recollected that according to etiquette she was waiting for him to speak first.

"Well, Mademoiselle, what can I do for you?"

The young girl stammered: "I wanted to see you ... pardon ... to see your Majesty ... to tell him how grateful I am for the laces he ordered from me ... that your Majesty ordered."

Fandor began to be amused at the embarrassment of the young girl, so to set her at ease he remarked:

"Mademoiselle, just talk to me as you would to anyone else, and as for the laces, I shall be very glad to order others."

A start of surprise from Marie Pascal gave Fandor the uneasy feeling that he had made a break.

"Then, your Majesty, I suppose I must send the next lot to the Queen."

"Of course."

"How about the bill?"

Fandor repressed a smile. Evidently these poor Kings must have one hand in their pockets. As the interview continued the young girl regained her confidence, and going close to Fandor, spoke in a tone of sincere anxiety:

"Sire, it was not you ... oh, forgive me." And then in a lower tone: "I have denounced you, Sire."

Then, dropping to her knees, Marie Pascal repeated all that had happened. Fandor now realized that the death of Susy d'Orsel had a witness and that a detective was now in possession of the facts.

"And this detective! Is he tall, broad shouldered, about forty-five, with gray hair and clean shaven?"

The young girl was astonished at the accuracy of the portrait.

"Why, yes, Sire ... your Majesty is right."

"It can be no other than Juve," thought Fandor joyfully. Then turning to Marie Pascal, "Now you must answer truthfully the question I am going to ask you. Will you tell me why, after accusing me of this dreadful crime, you have suddenly changed your opinion and come to tell me how sorry you are and that you are now sure I am not guilty? You must have very serious reasons for this change of front."

"I have been convinced of your innocence," she replied, "by the most absolute proof." She then recounted to Fandor her discovery of the chemise belonging to the Marquis de SÉrac.

"After picking up this chemise I was about to give it over to Mme. Ceiron, the conciÈrge of the house, when my eyes happened to fall upon the ruffles on the sleeves. Attached to the right sleeve were some shreds of lace which seemed to have been torn from a larger piece. I am a lace maker and I recognized immediately that these pieces came from a dress I had just delivered to Mlle. Susy d'Orsel a few hours before."

Fandor, who was listening with the closest attention, now asked: "What do you deduce from that, Mademoiselle?"

"Sire, simply that the person who threw Susy d'Orsel out of the window was wearing that chemise."

"And," continued the journalist, "as this belonged to the Marquis de SÉrac?"

"But it is a woman's chemise."

Fandor quickly realized the importance of this testimony. First, that Susy d'Orsel had really been murdered and secondly that the King Frederick-Christian had had no hand in it.

"Is your Majesty very unhappy over the death of Mlle. d'Orsel?"

Fandor glanced sharply at the young woman and then replied enigmatically: "I am, of course, very much shocked at the tragic end of this poor girl. But what is the matter with you?"

Marie Pascal was growing paler and paler and finally collapsed in his arms. Gently he placed Marie Pascal on a sofa. For a few moments Fandor sat there holding her hands. Then she sat up quickly.

"What are you doing?"

Ready to continue what he considered an amusing adventure, he was about to take her in his arms murmuring, "I love you." But she rose quickly and fled horror-stricken.

"No, no, it's horrible." She sank down covering her face and crying hysterically.

Fandor rushed over just in time to hear her murmur, "Alas, and I love you."

A variety of sentiments and impressions passed through the mind of Fandor. At first, delighted with the avowal he had heard, he took her, unresisting, in his arms. Then suddenly he became the victim of a violent jealousy. For it was not to Fandor she had yielded but to the King of Hesse-Weimar, Frederick-Christian. She looked so pretty with her tears and her love that the situation became intolerable to him.

"Sire," whispered the gentle voice of Marie Pascal, "may I remind you of a promise? Dare I ask for a souvenir?" She pointed to a photograph of Frederick-Christian II.

"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." The journalist searched through his pockets to find something he might give her as compensation, and then clasped her to his heart as the only thing possible to do under the circumstances. At this moment a servant entered and gravely announced:

"Sire, Wulfenmimenglaschk is here." Had the sun or the moon or the King himself been announced Fandor's amazement would not have been greater. Marie Pascal was about to slip away embarrassed, hardly capable of leaving in so much happiness, when Fandor recalled her.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Sire!"

"What you told me just now about the torn lace you had better repeat at police headquarters." Then in a lower tone he continued his instructions. When he had finished she nodded her head.

Yes, she would go and find Juve, the detective Juve, as the King had ordered her, and she would tell him everything.

The servant was waiting motionless for the King's answer.

"Wulfenmimenglaschk," thought he, "that must be one of those extraordinary German-American cocktails which Frederick-Christian is accustomed to order." He turned to the servant:

"Pour it out." At the man's surprise Fandor realized that he had made a mistake. At this moment a very fat man with scarlet face and pointed moustache appeared in the doorway and gave the military salute, announcing in a voice of thunder:

"Wulfenmimenglaschk!"

"Good God," murmured the journalist, dropping into an armchair. "This time I'm dished. He's come from Hesse-Weimar."