The King was dead. It must have been very sudden, then. Assassinated, probably. To Balkan rulers assassination is almost a natural form of death.
And still the people came. More and more thickly they packed the square.
“We’d better get out of this,” John said, and started the motor, “if we don’t we’ll be hemmed in by the crowd, and won’t be able to.” But we were already hemmed in. We moved ahead not more than a few feet, the crowds were coming too fast to let us through. A man in a blue blouse climbed on the running board. He had a full red beard and shining brown eyes.
“How did the King die?” I asked.
“They are all saying different things,” the man replied, “but all I know is that the King is dead, and there will be trouble in Herrovosca.”
“Revolution?” I asked.
“Who knows? Perhaps. The Soviet—a republic—perhaps the Prince Conrad may be clever enough and strong enough to hold the throne—who knows? And the Queen will not be idle.”
“But the King died suddenly?”
“Oh, very suddenly. I saw him myself only this morning. He was driving out with some friends. Two cars full. Going up to the mountains to hunt, I heard, and not an hour ago the Queen was driving through the streets as she does every day when the weather is fine.”
“Not such a comfortable moment to time our visit,” I said. “There’ll probably be just enough trouble here to be a bother.”