“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair, and closing his eyes.

Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been, no doubt, depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe.  Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.

“If your majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”

The man sprung from his chair, and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation.  Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground.

“You are right,” he cried, “I am the king.  Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes.  “Your majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”

“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high, white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person.  Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power.  I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”

“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

“The facts are briefly these:  Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress Irene Adler.  The name is no doubt familiar to you.”

“Kindly look her up in my index, doctor,” murmured Holmes, without opening his eyes.  For many years he had adopted a system for docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information.  In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

“Let me see!” said Holmes.  “Hum!  Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.  Contralto—­hum!  La Scala—­hum!  Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—­yes!  Retired from operatic stage—­ha!  Living in London—­quite so!  Your majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.”

“Precisely so.  But how—­”

“Was there a secret marriage?”

“None.”

“No legal papers or certificates?”

“None.”

“Then I fail to follow your majesty.  If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”

“There is the writing.”

“Pooh-pooh!  Forgery.”

“My private note paper.”