Finally Von Ritz came.  “It seems that we can rely on no one,” he said.  “The Palace Guard had been picked from the few in whom I still believed.  I had hoped there was a trustworthy remnant.”

“One of them has just tried a shot at me with one of my own muskets.”  The King spoke impersonally as though the matter bore only on the psychic question of trusting men.  “The spot is there on the wall.”  Then he added with bitter whimsicality:  “It seems to me, Colonel, that we have either very poor marksmen in our service, or else we supply them with very poor rifles.”

For a moment Von Ritz almost smiled.  “I was passing the point as he touched the trigger, Your Majesty,” he replied with calmness.  “I will personally vouch for his future harmlessness.”

The lighted door, at the same moment, framed the figure of an aide.  “Your Majesty,” he said with a bow, “Monsieur Jusseret prays a brief audience.”

Karyl turned to Von Ritz, his brows arching interrogation.  In answer the Colonel wheeled and addressed the officer, who waited statuesquely:  “His Majesty will not receive Monsieur Jusseret.  Any matters of interest to France will receive His Majesty’s attention when they reach him through France’s properly accredited ambassador.”

Yet five minutes later, Jusseret, escorted by several officers in the Galavian uniform, entered the garden through the door of the King’s private suite.  At the monstrous insolence of this forbidden invasion of Karyl’s privacy, Von Ritz stepped forward.  His voice was even colder than usual with the chill of mortal fury.

“You have evidently misunderstood.  The King declined to receive you—­” he began.

Karyl turned his head and looked curiously on.  The keen, dissipated eyes of the sub-rosa diplomat twinkled humorously.  For a moment the thin lips twisted into a wry smile.

“The King is hardly in a position that warrants declining to receive me,” he announced with an ironically ceremonious bow to Karyl.  He was imperturbable and impeccable from his patent-leather pumps to the Legion of Honor ribbon in his lapel.

“I offer the King an opportunity to abdicate his throne—­and retain his liberty.  Not only do I offer him his liberty, but also such an income as will make the cafes of Paris possible, and the society of other gentlemen who are also—­well, let us say retired Royalties.  I do this in the capacity of a private friend of the Grand Duke Louis Delgado.”  His smile was bland, suave, undisturbed.

Von Ritz took a step forward.

“Escort Monsieur Jusseret to the Palace gates!” he commanded, his eyes blazing on the Galavian officers.  “The persons of even secret Ambassadors are sacred—­otherwise—­” His voice failed him.

The officers cringed back under his glance, but stood supine and inactive.