He paused and looked across at me somewhat anxiously. His speech was slow but very distinct. He had little accent, but I had known quite well that he was not an Englishman.
"I shall be very glad to hear anything that you have to say, Mr. de
Valentin," I answered.
He beat with his forefinger upon the table for a few moments absently. I found myself studying him critically. His appearance was without doubt distinguished. His sallow face, his pointed black beard, his high, well-shaped nose, and almost brilliant eyes gave him the appearance of a Spaniard; but the scrupulous exactness of his plain dinner clothes, his well-manicured nails, and the ring upon his little finger, with its wonderful green stone, were all suggestive of the French aristocrat. His eyebrows were knit just now, as though with thought. Presently he looked up from the table and continued:
"If you will permit me," he said, "I should like to introduce myself. My name is not Mr. de Valentin. I am Victor Louis, Comte de Valentin, Marquis de St. Auteuil, Duc de Bordera and Escault, Prince of Normandy."
I nodded gravely.
"And according to some," I remarked in a low tone, "King of France!"
He looked at me in keen surprise. He was evidently taken aback.
"You knew me?" he exclaimed.
"I felt very sure," I answered, "that you were the person whom you have declared yourself to be. I have seen you twice in Paris, and you must remember that this is an age of illustrated papers and journalistic enterprise."
"You have not mentioned your recognition of me?" he asked quickly.