The fashionable Carleton was unfamiliar territory to the inquisitive mariners, but they strolled boldly through the corridors until they fetched up in front of a desk presided over by an immaculate clerk with a languid manner who appeared indifferent to their wants. After waiting several minutes for some recognition, Captain Michael O’Shea sweetly remarked:
“Will ye answer a civil question or will I climb over the counter and jolt you wide-awake?”
The languid person looked attentively at the resolute features of the speaker and hastily answered:
“Beg pardon—beg pardon—what can I do for you, sir?”
“Tell me if a king is stopping in this hotel of yours, and does he have a minister of finance called Baron Strothers?”
“Ah, you mean His Majesty, King Osmond of Trinadaro,” and the clerk delivered these resounding syllables with unction. “Yes, he is a guest of the hotel.”
“He is a real one, do you get that?” soberly whispered O’Shea to his comrade before he again addressed the clerk.
“We wish to see him on important business. We will write our names on a card.”
“Baron Strothers receives such callers as are personally unknown to His Majesty,” the clerk explained.
“We do not wish to see the young man,” said O’Shea.