Outside the very commonplace house in Stanmore Crescent, where the Emperor of Byzantium lived, Monkley told the baron that he did not wish anything said about Sylvester’s father. Did the baron understand? He wished a certain mystery to surround Sylvester. The baron after his adventure in Earl’s Court Road would appreciate the importance of secrecy.
“You are a regular devil, Monkley,” said von Statten, in his most mincing voice. Remembering the saloon bar, Sylvia had made up her mind not to be disappointed if the Emperor’s reception failed to be very exciting; yet on the whole she was rather impressed. To be sure, the entrance hall of 14 Stanmore Crescent was not very imperial; but a footman took their silk hats, and, though Monkley whispered that he was carrying them like flower-pots and was evidently the jobbing gardener from round the corner, Sylvia was agreeably awed, especially when they were invited to proceed to the antechamber.
“In other words, the dining-room,” said Monkley to the baron.
“Hush! Don’t you see the throne-room beyond?” the baron whispered.
Sure enough, opening out of the antechamber was a smaller room in which was a dais covered with purple cloth. On a high Venetian chair sat the Emperor, a young man with dark, bristling hair, in evening dress. Sylvia stood on tiptoe to get a better look at him; but there was such a crush in the entrance to the throne-room that she had to be content for the present with staring at the numerous courtiers and listening to Monkley’s whispered jokes, which the baron tried in vain to stop.
“I suppose where the young man with a head like a door-mat and a face like a scraper is sitting is where the Imperial family congregates after dinner. I’d like to see what’s under that purple cloth. Packing-cases, I’ll bet a quid.”
“Hush! hush! not so loud,” the baron implored. “Here’s Captain Grayrigg, the Emperor’s father.”
He pointed to a very small man with pouched eyes and a close-cropped pointed beard.
“Do you mean to tell me the Emperor hasn’t made his father a field-marshal? He ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“My dear man, Captain Grayrigg married the late Empress. He is nothing himself.”