“Fetch her here, captain, and I will talk with her alone.”  The voice was the king’s.  “And, captain, you might remove the guard from before the door temporarily.  I shall not require them, nor do I wish them to overhear my conversation with the princess.”

Barney could hear the officer acknowledge the commands of the king, and then he heard a door close.  The man had gone to fetch the princess.  The American struck a match and examined the panel before him.  It reached to the top of the passageway and was some three feet in width.

At one side were three hinges, and at the other an ancient spring lock.  For an instant Barney stood in indecision.  What should he do?  His entry into the apartments of the king would result in alarming the entire fortress.  Were he sure the king was alone it might be accomplished.  Should he enter now or wait until the Princess Emma had been brought to the king?

With the question came the answer—­a bold and daring scheme.  His fingers sought the lock.  Very gently, he unlatched it and pushed outward upon the panel.  Suddenly the great doorway gave beneath his touch.  It opened a crack letting a flood of light into his dark cell that almost blinded him.

For a moment he could see nothing, and then out of the glaring blur grew the figure of a man sitting at a table—­with his back toward the panel.

It was the king, and he was alone.  Noiselessly Barney Custer entered the apartment, closing the panel after him.  At his back now was the great oil painting of the Blentz princess that had hid the secret entrance to the room.  He crossed the thick rugs until he stood behind the king.  Then he clapped one hand over the mouth of the monarch of Lutha and threw the other arm about his neck.

“Make the slightest outcry and I shall kill you,” he whispered in the ear of the terrified man.

Across the room Barney saw a revolver lying upon a small table.  He raised the king to his feet and, turning his back toward the weapon dragged him across the apartment until the table was within easy reach.  Then he snatched up the revolver and swung the king around into a chair facing him, the muzzle of the gun pressed against his face.

“Silence,” he whispered.

The king, white and trembling, gasped as his eyes fell upon the face of the American.

“You?” His voice was barely audible.

“Take off your clothes—­every stitch of them—­and if any one asks for admittance, deny them.  Quick, now,” as the king hesitated.  “My life is forfeited unless I can escape.  If I am apprehended I shall see that you pay for my recapture with your life—­if any one enters this room without my sanction they will enter it to find a dead king upon the floor; do you understand?”

The king made no reply other than to commence divesting himself of his clothing.  Barney followed his example, but not before he had crossed to the door that opened into the main corridor and shot the bolt upon the inside.  When both men had removed their clothing Barney pointed to the little pile of soiled peasant garb that he had worn.