But the real part, the better part, had now to be dropped.
Fate, chance, circumstances over which he had had no control, had decided that.
Yes. "Alfred," "my boy," was gasping for life, taking a last look at the green beauty of the sunlit, summer world, now, here at the windows—
The King shook himself, impatiently, and turned from the windows.
His position was trying enough, as it was, without his indulging in imaginary morbidity!
As he turned, his eyes were caught by an open book, which lay on the window sill, beside the sofa, on his right.
Had not Uncle Bond said something about a book, a book on the window sill, beside the sofa, a book that might interest him? An uncommon book that! He was no reading man, as Uncle Bond knew well. But it might be a copy of the little man's latest shocker—
Welcoming the distraction, the King advanced to the sofa, and picked up the book.
In the centre of the right-hand page of the open volume a couple of sentences had been heavily scored in pencil.
The King read these words—