“No,” replied Herr Kramer, “not exactly.  In fact, I did not know what I should expect.”

As the two passed him on their way to the room in which the patient lay, the servant eyed Herr Kramer in surprise, as though wondering what had occurred to his mentality since he had seen him the previous day.  He paid no attention to Barney other than to bow to him as he passed, but there was another who did—­an attendant standing in the hallway through which the two men walked toward the private room where one of them expected to find the real mad king of Lutha.

He was a dark-visaged fellow, sallow and small-eyed; and as his glance rested upon the features of the American a puzzled expression crossed his face.  He let his gaze follow the two as they moved on up the corridor until they turned in at the door of the room they sought, then he followed them, entering an apartment next to that in which Herr Kramer’s patient lay.

As Barney and the shopkeeper entered the small, whitewashed room, the former saw upon the narrow iron cot the figure of a man of about his own height.  The face that turned toward them as they entered was covered by a full, reddish-brown beard, and the eyes that looked up at them in troubled surprise were gray.  Beyond these Barney could see no likenesses to himself; yet they were sufficient, he realized, to have deceived any who might have compared one solely to the printed description of the other.

At the doorway Kramer halted, motioning Barney within.

“It will be better if you talk with him alone,” he said.  “I am sure that before both of us he will admit nothing.”

Barney nodded, and the shopkeeper of Tafelberg withdrew and closed the door behind him.  The American approached the bedside with a cheery “Good morning.”

The man returned the salutation with a slight inclination of his head.  There was a questioning look in his eyes; but dominating that was a pitiful, hunted expression that touched the American’s heart.

The man’s left hand lay upon the coverlet.  Barney glanced at the third finger.  About it was a plain gold band.  There was no royal ring of the kings of Lutha in evidence, yet that was no indication that the man was not Leopold; for were he the king and desirous of concealing his identity, his first act would be to remove every symbol of his kingship.

Barney took the hand in his.

“They tell me that you are well on the road to recovery,” he said.  “I am very glad that it is so.”

“Who are you?” asked the man.

“I am Bernard Custer, an American.  You were found beneath my car at the bottom of a ravine.  I feel that I owe you full reparation for the injuries you received, though it is beyond me how you happened to be found under the machine.  Unless I am truly mad, I was the only occupant of the roadster when it plunged over the embankment.”

“It is very simple,” replied the man upon the cot.  “I chanced to be at the bottom of the ravine at the time and the car fell upon me.”