"Any king in the Almanach de Gotha—with the exception of the King of Asturia, eh?"
The question was couched in a tone of easy badinage, but its effect on Hunt was wonderful. The face grew grey and his hands trembled. If he had been accused of some crime he could not have looked more agitated. He tried to bluff, but he could only stammer something incoherent.
"Really, I don't know what you mean," he said. "The King of Asturia, you say?"
"My words were quite plain, Mr. Hunt. I came here to-night determined to see you and determined not to be bluffed by all the clerks in your office. Your paper has gone to press, and therefore you must have a few minutes to spare. You need not be afraid. Your composing-room door is locked, and the present item of news destined for your readers is not likely to leak out. Will you be so good as to let me have an advanced copy of the paper?"
"Certainly not," Hunt said. "This is an outrage. If you do not leave my office——"
"Sit down," Lechmere said sternly. He might have been speaking to an unruly hound. "You are not going beyond that door without we have an explanation. The King of Asturia was here to-night. If you deny it, I shall give you the lie from that printed proof on the table before you."
Hunt glanced at the long galley slip and wriggled. All his dignity had vanished.
"I am not going to deny it," he said. "The King of Asturia has been here. He came in a cab. I did not send for him, he came of his own free will. He gave me certain information——"
"I have not the slightest doubt of it," Lechmere said drily. "Unfortunately, his majesty has made for himself in London the sort of reputation which is coveted only by a certain class of music-hall frequenter and the haunter of the typical Strand bar. There have been occasions when his majesty has exceeded the bounds in the way of intoxicating liquor. Did you see any signs of it to-night?"