“Brandy,” answered Ludovics, gratefully, for his supply of cash was beginning to get low.
“Very good!” cried Benedict. “Waiter, bring out a pint of your choicest cognac and half a dozen of your very best cigars.”
Ludovics smiled cordially. He liked this open-handed youth.
“You are from Rexania?” asked Benedict, as he lighted a cigar and gazed earnestly at Ludovics’ flushed face.
“Rexania!” cried the latter, hysterically. “Rexania! Of course I’m from Rexania. And, let me tell you, young man, I’m going back to Rexania. Did you say the king wouldn’t let me? You lie, young man, you lie! He can’t help it. How can a dead king keep a live man out of his fatherland? Tell me that, will you?”
Ludovics paused and glanced around the deserted room suspiciously. Then he again turned his eyes to the sympathetic face of his companion. He vaguely felt that he should stop sipping liquor and keep his reckless tongue quiet, but he was in a mood that craved expression, and Benedict’s cordial manner was very soothing to the overwrought Rexanian. The reporter had been successful in his profession from his power of allaying suspicion and inspiring confidence.
“But, my friend,” suggested Benedict, quietly, “the king is not yet dead—though very ill.”
Ludovics looked almost sober as he flashed an eager and inquiring glance at the young man.
“How do you know that? Have you heard from Rexopolis?”
Benedict did not reply for a moment. He was carefully weighing a bold step. Should he show this man the proof of the cable despatch he carried with him? “He will be too drunk in an hour to sell the news to another paper, even if he knew the ropes well enough when sober,” reflected Benedict, as he took the proof-slip from his coat and handed it to Ludovics.