Whether he thought well of him or not, the War Lord kept No. 103 standing full twenty-five minutes. If in his youth he had not had a particularly cruel drill-ground sergeant, he could not have endured the pain and fatigue.
Suddenly the portières parted: the War Lord, seated at a "diplomat's" writing-desk; Count Wedell, toying with a self-cocking six-shooter, stood at his left.
"If that thing goes off and accidentally hits me," thought No. 103, "there is a trap-door under this rug, and a winding staircase leading to a sewer, I suppose, as in the Doge's Palace." Comforting thought, but who cares for a spy?
"Approach," ordered the War Lord in a high-pitched voice. When No. 103 was within three paces of the Majesty, Wedell held up his hand.
"His Majesty wants to know all about last night," said the Privy Councillor.
"Did Herr von Este really look under the bed?" queried the War Lord, tempering the essential by the ridiculous.
"He did indeed," replied No. 103; "and I nearly betrayed my presence between the sheets watching him."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, Your Majesty; just a thought passing through my mind."
"Out with it," cried the War Lord, when No. 103 stopped short.