“You heard from the palace to-day?”
“A short cable despatch in cipher. The king is restless; his physicians are worried about him.”
“Good!” cried Posnovitch. “I think they have good cause to be. Both he and his kingdom are on their last legs.”
When the train reached Forty-seventh Street the two Rexanians made a hasty exit and hurried down the stairs. It was a hot, close night in September. Somehow the summer, dissatisfied with its career, had impinged upon the fall and was now engaged in maliciously breaking a record. The sky was overhung with heavy clouds, and now and then a flash of lightning glared through the streets.
Posadowski and his towering companion turned up Fifth Avenue, and after a short walk were accosted by Rukacs. Pointing to a house just opposite to where they stood, he said, with a tremor of excitement in his voice:
“There’s where he is dining. He has been in there over an hour.”
“Good!” cried Posadowski. “Wait here until I rejoin you.”
Crossing the street, the Rexanian mounted the steps of Gerald Strong’s mansion, rang the bell, and, after a short discussion with the attendant, left in his hands the note that informed the prince that friends awaited him outside—a note that, as we know, he received and acted upon.
When he returned to the sidewalk, Posadowski, noting carefully that he was not being watched from the house, approached the carriage that was awaiting the prince’s exit.