So they knew about the impending storm, and they were already taking sides. He looked at the rollicking crowd which surged about him, now, with new interest. Red, white, and blue rosettes, similar to the one which was pinned to his own coat, were being worn everywhere. The right colours appeared to be popular. In the elaborate, secret, protective schemes, lettered for code purposes, in the Greek alphabet, from Alpha to Gamma, which the old Duke of Northborough had laid before him, to demonstrate the Cabinet's readiness for every eventuality, the loyalty of the people had no place. Might not that loyalty render the old Duke's schemes unnecessary? But the old Duke wanted, he seemed almost anxious, to force a fight. And the old Duke was, of course, right.
By this time, the King had succeeded in working his way across the road. He turned now, mechanically to his left, down a quiet, side street, which ended in a cul-de-sac, but afforded, on the right, an entrance to one of those odd, shut in havens of coach-houses and stables, which are to be found all over the West End of London, tucked away behind the great houses, from which they usually take their directory title, with the addition of that admirably significant word, mews. Here, in a small, lock-up garage, which he had contrived to rent in the name of a youthful member of his personal, secretarial staff, the King kept a two-seated, powerfully engined, motor car. Geoffrey Blunt, the nominal tenant of the garage, a light-hearted but discreet, cadet of a good house, had also lent his name for the purchase of the car. In recognition of Blunt's complaisance in the matter, the King had allowed him to accompany him in one or two harmless Caliph Haroun Al Raschid night interludes, in which the car had figured; but Blunt, as Vizier, had no idea that the King, his Caliph, used the car, as now, for solitary excursions.
The police constable on the beat happened to be testing, with his bull's-eye lantern in action, the fastenings of the adjacent coach-houses and stables, in the dimly lit mews, when the King arrived at the garage. Recognizing in the King, as he thought, a resident in one of the neighbouring houses, the constable saluted him respectfully, and helped him to open the garage doors, and run out the car.
"You'll find the traffic difficult tonight, sir, I'm thinking," he remarked, with a hint of a London tamed Irish brogue. "They turned the people out of the parks, when the fireworks finished, a full half hour ago, but, bless you, they are in no hurry to go home. Well, it's one night in a lifetime, as you might say, isn't it, sir? And, beyond holding up the traffic, there's no harm in the people—they're just lively, that's all. There'll be a good many of them will lie in late, when they do get to bed, in the morning, I'm thinking. But the tiredest man, in all London, this night, and in the whole Empire, too, if it comes to that, I should think must be the King himself, God bless him! Did you get a good view of him, yourself, sir? I was in duty in Whitehall for the procession, and barring a yard or two, I was as close to him then, as I am, now, to you. As fine, and upstanding a young fellow, as you could wish to see, he is, too, and as like his poor dead brother, the Prince, God rest his soul! as two peas. But he looked tired, I thought. I hope they won't work him too hard, at first. He's only a young man still, and he's got his troubles before him, they say, although to look at the people, tonight, you wouldn't think so, would you? But give him his chance, and he'll do as well as his brother, the Prince, I say, for all that he's a sailor. I'm an old Guardsman, myself, sir, the same as the Prince was, but, after all, it's time you had your turn, in the Senior Service, isn't it, sir?"
Busy putting on the thick leather motor coat, and adjusting the goggles, which he kept stored in the car, the King listened to the constable's garrulous, friendly talk with rich amusement, not untouched by a more serious interest. He almost wished that he could reveal his real identity to the man, and then shake hands with him. Surely the loyalty of the people had been underestimated? This garrulous police constable had a juster appreciation, and a more sympathetic understanding, of the difficulties and the dangers of his position, than he had ever imagined possible.
With the constable's assistance the King closed, and re-locked the garage doors. Then he slipped a handful of loose silver into the man's not too ready palm, and sprang up into his seat at the steering wheel of the car.
"Liquidate that in drinking to the King's health, constable," he directed, as he started the car. "Drink it to the frustration of all the King's enemies."
All the King's enemies? His worst enemy? Himself?
The man's reply was drowned by the throbbing beat of the powerful engine.
A moment later, the car leapt forward, out of the dimly lit mews, swung up the quiet side street, beyond, and so passed into the densely thronged roadway in Lower Grosvenor Place.