Mechanically, the King raised his hand to his cap.
A moment later, as the car rushed out on to the Great North Road, he realized, with a start, that this salute, and his acknowledgment of it, marked, definitely, his return to duty.
Alfred, the sailor, was indeed dead.
It was—the King—who had raised his hand to his cap.
Instinctively, he had resumed his place in the procession.
It had been just as Judith had said. The shadow thrown by his Royal rank had been waiting for him there in the lane, behind him—
"That was battalion headquarters, the Coldstreams, Colonel Varney Wilson in command," the Duke explained. "It is they who have been responsible for your safety, during the last twenty-four hours, sir."
The King nodded; but made no other reply.
The Duke shot one of his shrewd, penetrating glances at the King. Then the old statesman leant far back in his corner in the luxuriously upholstered car. He did not speak again.
The King was grateful to the Duke for his silence, and for the ready understanding of his mood which that silence implied.