"But," she said in a softer tone, "what if you've got to be thrown back into the sea again?" Then she added, "And, you see, I have. Probably I'm very foolish to come. The prison will only be blacker, but I couldn't stand it. I wanted—" She looked at him with the frankness which has nothing to conceal—"I wanted to forget it all for a little time."
With a frigid salutation, Colonel Von Ritz arrived. As he addressed the American, despite his flawless courtesy, his voice still carried the undercurrent of antagonism which no word of his had ever failed to convey to Benton, since their first meeting in America.
"If Miss Carstow"—he uttered the assumed name with distaste—"will excuse you," he suggested, "I should like a word."
Von Ritz led the way out of doors and between the tables and trellises of the garden until he came upon a spot which seemed to promise the greatest possible degree of privacy. There he stopped and stood looking straight ahead of him.
"All that I now tell you, Mr. Benton"—his voice was even and polite to a nicety, yet distinctly icy—"is of course a message from the King."
"Meaning," Benton smiled with polite indifference, "that your personal communications with me would be few?"
"Meaning," corrected Von Ritz gravely, "that in His Majesty's affairs, I speak only on His Majesty's authority."
"Colonel, I am at your service."
"In the first place," began the Galavian at last, "His Majesty wished me to explain why he has presumed on your further assistance. You are the only man outside Galavia who understands—and whom the King may implicitly trust, trust even with the safety of Her Majesty, the Queen."
"You will convey to the King my appreciation of his confidence." Somehow, between the American and this emissary of Karyl, there could never be any attitude other than that of the utmost formality.