At the time that Mr. Fairfax had seen fit to endow Regie with a photographing outfit, he had, with no little painstaking, carefully instructed him as just to how the whole process, from beginning to end, must be managed. As a result Regie had succeeded in producing some first-rate pictures, “all his own work, too,” as he would have told you proudly. But that was more than a year ago, and before he knew Nan and Harry. He had some fine plans for the summer just ended, but that unlucky fall from the cherry tree bough had prevented his carrying them out. To be sure, within the last few weeks, since the little leg had so thoroughly mended, he might have gotten to work again as easily as could be, but the excitement following the wreck of the Christina had driven all thought of it out of his mind.
The fact that Nan knew that Regie could take pictures accounted in a measure, perhaps, for the reverence with which she regarded him; but Harry was as doubtful of his real ability as in the matter of the earning of the money for the hospital fund, and he hailed with delight the chance he was about to have to put him to the test.
Harry and Nan were ready in no time, but with the amateur photographer, “getting ready” is a mysterious and laborious proceeding, and Rex failed to put in an appearance.
The body-guard waited and waited till, their patience exhausted, they scaled the stairway leading to His Royal Highness's private apartment, but His Majesty was nowhere to be seen.
“Why, where is Rex?” cried Nan.
“I'm in here,” answered a muffled voice.
“What, in the closet?” and Harry rushed for it.
“Yes, but don't open the door for the world. I'm filling my plate-holders.”
Harry and Nan looked at each other as much as to say, “What in creation is he talking about?” then by tacit consent they noiselessly crouched down by the closet door, and Harry peeped through the keyhole.
His face grew pale, and with a terrified expression he drew Nan over so that she could take a look; then with precipitate haste they fled from the room.