“I must write us an order to leave the city. Michael’s Governor, you know, and we must be prepared for hindrances. You must sign the order.”
“My dear colonel, I’ve not been bred a forger!”
Out of his pocket Sapt produced a piece of paper.
“There’s the King’s signature,” he said, “and here,” he went on, after another search in his pocket, “is some tracing paper. If you can’t manage a ‘Rudolf’ in ten minutes, why—I can.”
“Your education has been more comprehensive than mine,” said I. “You write it.”
And a very tolerable forgery did this versatile hero produce.
“Now, Fritz,” said he, “the King goes to bed. He is upset. No one is to see him till nine o’clock tomorrow. You understand—no one?”
“I understand,” answered Fritz.
“Michael may come, and claim immediate audience. You’ll answer that only princes of the blood are entitled to it.”
“That’ll annoy Michael,” laughed Fritz.