When De Grammont saw me, he came forward, holding out both hands in his effusive French manner, apparently overjoyed at finding a long-lost brother.

“Come with me, my dear baron,” he cried, bending so close to me that I feared he was going to kiss me.  “Come with me!  You are the very man of all the world I want, I need, I must have!”

“You have me, my dear count,” said I, “but I cannot go with you.  I am engaged elsewhere.”

“No, no, let me whisper!” He brought his lips close to my ear and continued almost inaudibly:  “You may please me.  You may help a friend.  You may oblige—­a king.”

The last, of course, was the ne plus ultra of inducement according to the count’s way of thinking, and he supposed the mere suggestion would vanquish me.  Still I pleaded my engagement.  He insisted, however, repeating in my ear:—­

“Oblige a king!  A real king!  Not a flimsy fool of bourgeois, who makes of himself the laughing-stock of his people, but a real king.  I cannot name him now, but you must know.”

We were in a narrow passage leading to the Stone Gallery in Whitehall.  He looked about him a moment, then taking me by the arm, led me to the Stone Gallery and thence to the garden.  I wanted to stop, but he kept his grasp on my arm, repeating now and then the word “Come” in whispers, till we reached a lonely spot in St. James Park.  There he halted, and though there was not a living creature in sight, he brought his lips to my ear and breathed the name, “’Sieur George Hamilton.”

I tried not to show that I was startled, but the quickwitted, sharp-eyed Frenchman read me as though I were an open book, and grasping my hand, cried out:—­

“Ah, I knew you could tell me.  It is to rejoice!  I knew it!”

“Tell you what, count?” I asked.

“Tell me where your friend and mine is, or if you will not tell me, take to him a letter.  I have been trying to find him this fortnight.”

“I cannot tell you where he is, my dear count—­”

“Of course not!  I do not ask,” he interrupted.

“—­But I may be able to forward your letter to him.  I heard only the other day that he was in France.”

“Of course, of course, he is in France!  Not in England at all!  Good, good!  I see you are to be trusted.  But I must have your word of honor that the letter will be delivered.”

“I shall send it by none but a trusted messenger,” I answered, “and shall return it to you unopened unless I am convinced beyond a doubt that it will reach our friend.”

“Good, good!  Come to my hotel.  I will trust you.”

We went to De Grammont’s house, and after taking great precautions against discovery, he gave me a small wooden box wound with yards of tape and sealed with quantities of wax.  I put the box in my pocket, saying:—­

“I accept the trust on my honor, dear count, and though the package bears no name nor address, I shall deliver it to the person for whom it is intended.”