it was the King who killed poor Mlle. Susy."
"But you are sure it was a man who killed Mlle. d'Orsel?"
"Yes, Monsieur … and I am also sure it was a thin, tall man … in fact, some one of the same build as the King."
"Well, Mademoiselle, I cannot see why you have kept this knowledge to yourself, it is most important, for it does away with the theory of suicide, it proves that a crime has been committed."
"Yes, but if it wasn't the King, it would be terrible to suspect him unjustly … that is what stopped me … "
"It must no longer stop you. If the King is a murderer, he must be punished like any other man; if he is innocent, the guilty man must be caught. You haven't spoken of this to the concièrge?"
Marie Pascal smiled.
"No, Monsieur, Mme. Ceiron is rather a gossip."
"I understand, but now you need keep silence no longer; in fact, I should be glad if you would spread your news … talk of it freely and I, on my side, will notify my chief… . I may add that we shall not be long in clearing up this mystery."
Juve had a reason for giving this advice. The more gossip, the less chance would the police department have to stifle the investigation.
Marie Pascal slept badly that night. She was too intelligent not to realize that her deposition had convinced Juve of the guilt of the King, and this troubled her greatly. She, herself, was persuaded that she had seen the King throw Susy out of the window, although she had had no time to identify him positively and the young girl was alarmed at the importance of her testimony.
However, she determined to follow Juve's advice and spread the gossip. With that purpose she went down to see Mother Ceiron. As the concièrge was not in her room she called through the hallway:
"Madame Ceiron!… Madame Ceiron!"
A man's voice answered and a laundryman came downstairs carrying a basket.
"The concièrge is on the sixth floor, Mademoiselle. I passed her as I was going up to get M. de Sérac's laundry."
"Ah, thank you, then I will wait for her."
Marie Pascal took a seat in the office, but at the end of ten minutes she became bored and decided to go out and get a breath of the fresh morning air.
As she reached the entrance she noticed an article of clothing lying on the ground.
"A woman's chemise," she exclaimed, picking it up. "The laundryman must have dropped it."
Then suddenly she grew pale and retraced her steps to the office.
"Good God!" she cried, leaning for support upon the back of a chair.
Chapter 7 THE KING RECEIVES
The elegant attaché of the Secretary for Foreign Affairs bowed, saying:
"I am extremely sorry to bring your Majesty this bad news."
A voice from the depth of the cushions inquired:
"What bad news?"
"I am telling your Majesty that it would be difficult—even impossible for you to go to the Longchamps races as you had the intention of doing."
"And why not?"
"The President of the Republic opens to-day the exposition at the Bagatelle Museum. If your Majesty went to the Bois de Boulogne you would run the risk of meeting him. You would then be obliged to stop and talk a few moments, but as this interview has not been foreseen and arranged for it would be very awkward."
"That is true."
"That is all I had to convey to your Majesty."
"Let me see, what is your name, Monsieur?"
"I am Count Adhemar de Candières, your Majesty."
"Well, Count, many thanks! You may retire."
The Count gracefully bowed himself out and with a convulsive movement of the cushions Jerome Fandor sprang up and burst out laughing.
"Ah!" he cried, "I thought that chap would never go! Your Majesty!… Sire … the King … pleasant names to be called when you're not accustomed to them. I've already had twenty-four hours of it, and if it goes on much longer I shall begin to think it's not a joke.
"And the King himself, what's become of him … what is Frederick-Christian II doing now … that's something I'd like to find out."
The journalist had indeed sufficient food for thought. From the dawn of New Year's Day he had gone from surprise to surprise. At first he thought he had been brought to the Royal Palace Hotel at the instigation of the King. That would have been the simple solution of the affair. The King must have realized the awkward predicament in which his companion was placed and in spite of his drunken stupor he would come to his assistance as soon as possible. As a matter of fact, Fandor had been set at liberty. The journalist therefore had waited patiently for the arrival of the King, who was unaccountably late.
Then little by little it began to dawn on him that the hotel people were considering him not as a friend of the King but as the King himself! Under ordinary circumstances, he would at once have made his identity known, but against that there were now a multitude of objections. His presence in the apartment of the murdered Susy d'Orsel had created an ambiguous and disagreeable situation. Again, was the personnel of the hotel really duped by the substitution?
The situation was becoming more and more difficult for Fandor. He realized that he was being watched. 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. Among the persons lounging in the lobby he recognized five or six detectives whom he had known and he realized that the police would have accurate information as to where he might go. On reaching the door he saw three or four automobiles lined up outside. Which one belonged to the King? Faced by this situation he acted without hesitation, he turned quickly and went back to the Royal apartment, where during the rest of the evening he had been left in peace. The following morning he awoke with a violent headache, and applied the usual remedy for the neuralgia to which he was subject. He bound up his head with a large silk scarf which he found in the Royal wardrobe. During the course of the morning his hotel bill was brought to him, which amounted to four thousand francs.
"Pretty stiff," he muttered, "for three days' stay. It may be all right for Frederick-Christian II, but for a poor devil of a journalist it is rather awkward."
Fandor was wondering what he should do about it when the telephone rang to announce a visitor. After listening at the receiver, his face suddenly lighted with a broad smile.
"Show him up," he answered.
Several moments afterwards a man entered the apartment He was about forty and wore the conventional frock coat and light gloves.
"I am," he said, "the private secretary of the Comptoir National de Crédit and am at your Majesty's
