“Why,” answered Kearns, equally astonished at this observation, “I mean, of course, screened against flies—mosquitoes.”
“Flies—mosquitoes!” exclaimed the King and Lord Ashley in the same breath. Both gave a hearty guffaw.
Kearns was visibly nettled. This was, indeed, different from the old days. He was certainly not accustomed to being laughed at. The last time this had occurred was when he had been outwitted upon one occasion by Converse, the so-called King of Counterfeiters—an experienced, clever and wily old wrongdoer. Kearns never forgave that laugh, and it was not long until Converse, in spite of his great ability, fell into an especially clever net set by Kearns. Incidentally, he paid the penalty of that laugh with a twenty years’ sentence. It was not a healthy occupation to laugh at Mr. Kearns in those days.
Lord Ashley noticed Kearns’ very evident chagrin.
“No, no,” he hastened to explain; “thanks to our modern scientists we have no flies or—ah—mosquitoes in these days. They are unknown to-day except as curiosities in the collection of some scientist, or under the glass cases in our museums. It is quite natural,” he added, with a conciliatory wave of the hand, “that you should have—ah—overlooked this fact.”
But Mr. Kearns’ chagrin was not to be so easily dissipated.
“Conditions have doubtless changed,” he said somewhat testily, “and I see nothing to be gained by any desultory examination of the facts. It will be necessary for me to make a personal investigation of the surroundings themselves.”
“Every facility shall be accorded you,” said the King. “Quarters shall be assigned you in the palace. Do you think,” he inquired anxiously, “that you will succeed?”
“I’m not accustomed to failure, Sire,” answered Kearns almost curtly.
“Succeed, then,” exclaimed the King, “and the reward which shall be yours shall be such as to emphasize the distinction between the liberality of a Court and the proverbial ingratitude of Republics.”