“Cards! Well, well; when you get down to the truth of the matter, real kings differ but little from the kings in pasteboard; right side up, or wrong side up, they serve the purpose of those who play them. There's a poor, harmless devil back there,” with a nod toward Bleiberg. “He never injured a soul. Perhaps that's it; had he been cruel, avaricious, sly, all of them would be cringing at his feet. Devil take me—but I'm a soldier,” he broke off abruptly; “it's none of my business.”
“Have you any titles?” Maurice asked presently.
“Titles?” The Colonel jerked around on his horse. “Why?”
“O,” said Maurice carelessly, “I thought it not unlikely that you might have a few lying around loose.”
The Colonel roared. “You Americans beat the very devil with your questions. Well, I am politely known as Count Mollendorf, if that will gratify you.”
“What! brother of Mollendorf of the king's police?”
“God save the mark! No; I am an honest man—some of the time.”
Maurice laughed; the old fellow was amusing, and besides, this conversation helped to pass away the time.
“Wake up, Jack; here's entertainment,” he said.
A scowl added itself to the stern expression on Fitzgerald's face.