“Pilgrimages,” observed the Chancellor, “have had marvelous results, sire. I do not insist that they perform miracles, as some believe,”—he smiled faintly,—“but as a matter of public feeling and a remedy for discord, they are sometimes efficacious.”
“I see,” said the King. And lay still, looking at the ceiling.
“Can it be done safely?” he asked at last.
“The maddest traitor would not threaten the Crown Prince on a pilgrimage. The people would tear him limb from limb.”
“Nevertheless, I should take all precautions,” he said dryly. “A madman might not recognize the—er—religious nature of the affair.”
The same day the Chancellor visited Prince Ferdinand William Otto, and found him returned from his drive and busy over Hedwig’s photograph frame.
“It is almost done,” he said. “I slipped over in one or two places, but it is not very noticeable, is it?”
The Chancellor observed it judicially, and decided that the slipping over was not noticeable at all. Except during school hours Miss Braithwaite always retired during the Chancellor’s visits, and so now the two were alone.
“Otto,” said the Chancellor gravely, “I want to talk to you very seriously.”
“Have I done anything?”