“Two, sir, only two.”
He took them from his pocket as he spoke and held them out for inspection. He had certainly got two eggs. Phillips was puzzled. Men seldom search for hens’ eggs—they never find them—in sea caves.
“Just enough for Mr. Donovan’s breakfast, sir.”
“Do you happen to know, Smith”—Phillips asked his question abruptly—“whether any one has been living in the palace lately? Last year, for instance, or at any time since the last king was murdered there?”
“Murdered, sir, how horrible! Was it long ago, sir?”
The assassination of King Otto had been mentioned, even discussed, a dozen times while Smith was waiting at table. Very good servants—and Smith was one of the best—are able, it is believed, to abstract their minds from the conversation of their masters, will actually hear nothing of what is said in their presence. Yet it seemed to Phillips as if Smith were overdoing his pose of ignorance.
“It was years ago, I believe. What I want to know is whether any one has been living in the palace since.”
“Don’t know, sir, I’m sure. Never been here before till I arrived with you, sir. Would you care for me to make inquiries? Some of the natives would be sure to know.”
“Ask that patriarch,” said Phillips, “Stephanos or whatever he’s called. Ask him next time you take him out for a row at six o’clock in the morning.”