‘I—I—I wanted to give it to you,’ said Giles.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ said the King, a sort of half-smile lurking round his mouth. ‘But what am I to do with it?’
At last Giles, encouraged by the King’s manner, found his tongue. And in a moment he was talking away as though his life depended upon it.
‘It’s a whispering shell, Your Majesty. If you keep it in your pocket it grows warm when anyone speaks of you—anyone anywhere in the world. And if you take it out and listen while it’s hot you’ll hear what’s being said.’
‘Boy,’ said the King, suddenly scowling, ‘if you’re trying to make a fool of me you’ll find yourself in trouble.’
‘Oh, I’m not, Your Majesty, I’m not,’ cried Giles. ‘I beg of you, believe me. I’ve tried it myself and I know.’
The King stared at him hard for a moment. Then he held out his gloved hand.
‘Give it me,’ he commanded.
At that Giles slipped the shell behind his back. And another hushed gasp of astonishment rose from the crowd.
‘Your Majesty—forgive me—I can only do that if you’ll promise me two things.’