Colonel Cuming and the Professor accordingly backed out of the royal presence, leaving Kearns somewhat astonished and perplexed amid his novel surroundings.
“History records, Mr. Kearns,” said the King, “that you were the most skilful and the most successful Chief of Secret Service this country has ever known. Is not that correct, Milord?” he asked, turning to Lord Ashley.
“It is so recorded, Sire,” answered the Vice-Chancellor. “Our historians and our writers of fiction have alike presented to us Mr. Kearns as the great Chief of Secret Service of the Western world—the equal of Vidocq, or of Fouché, if not their superior.”
“Just so,” said the King; “and it is precisely a Fouché that we need at our court at the present time. Your old-time cunning is, doubtless, still with you?”
Kearns bowed somewhat awkwardly.
“I do not know, Sire,” he answered simply.
He had heard both Colonel Cuming and Lord Ashley address the King as “Sire,” and he thought it best to follow this form.
“How so—you do not know?” inquired the King.
“Well, Sire,” replied Kearns, “as such talents as I once had have not had a chance of being exercised during seventy-five years, they may have become somewhat rusty. Besides, your writers have, perhaps, taken liberties and have exaggerated somewhat.”
“Ah,” exclaimed the King, his face breaking into a pleasant smile; “the modesty of genius!” The smile faded suddenly into that peculiar frosty stare, and he continued: “We have, however, less need for modesty than for action. Do you feel your abilities impaired?”