He crossed the room, swinging his racquet in his hand, and addressed Reist with a pleasant smile.
“We have been making so much noise,” he said, “that I am afraid we did not hear your first knock. I am Captain Erlito. You wished to see me?”
Reist looked him steadily and full in the face. If physique went for anything this man was surely born to be a King. He was well over six feet, splendidly made, and of military appearance. His features were clean-cut in the unmistakable Tyrnaus mould—only his mouth, which, stern though it was, was full of humour, seemed unfamiliar. His eyes were a wonderful deep blue, and his skin bronzed and burned with the Egyptian sun. A momentary bitterness possessed Reist. The people of Theos would care little for the brains which this man might lack. The first glance of him would be sufficient. They would shout him King till they were hoarse.
“You do not remember me, then?” Reist asked, softly.
Erlito stood swinging his racquet lightly in his fingers, and looked into his visitor’s face with pleasant and deferential courtesy.
“Do you know,” he said, “I am very sorry, but I am afraid that I do not. I have a very bad memory for faces. There is something about yours which seems to me familiar, but it comes from a long way back.”
Reist smiled faintly.
“Yes,” he said, “it comes indeed from a long way back. It comes from our boyhood. I hope at least that you have not forgotten my name. I am Nicholas of Reist.”
A radiant smile broke across Erlito’s face. He dropped his racquet and held out both his hands.
“It is little Nick!” he cried. “By all that is wonderful it is little Nick! Remember you? Why, we played soldiers together when we were children. A thousand, thousand welcomes.”