Prince Otto Georg smiled, much gratified by the compliment, and the atmosphere at the palace that evening was extremely agreeable. A State banquet had been held the night before in honour of the guest, but to-day, at Prince Otto’s special request, General Sertchaieff had been invited to join the royal party informally, since he wished to have some conversation with him on the subject of the Franco-Prussian war. The War Minister was highly flattered by this mark of favour, and he exchanged reminiscences at great length with the Prince, which he was well qualified to do, having gone through the war attached, as a great favour, to the staff of one of the German princes. After such an opening, it was not remarkable that the tone of the conversation continued to be extremely warlike, and became even undesirably technical in character, to the unmilitary auditor, when it turned on modern weapons and projectiles. This was in the smoking-room after dinner, and although Caerleon was quite content to allow the two visitors to discuss velocities and electric-firing apparatus together, Cyril objected to being left out in the cold, and after several valiant attempts succeeded at last in bringing the talk round to the comparatively simple theme of the use of the revolver in warfare. The two experts rose to the bait, and displayed as much enthusiasm with regard to the mechanism and weight of various types of revolvers as to those of the machine-gun, and Cyril, who flattered himself that he knew something about revolvers, was able to take part in the conversation.
“I wish I could show you what I mean,” he said at last, after an animated discussion of various knotty points, “but we can’t try pistol-practice in this room, for fear of breaking something.” They were not in the sacred “den” which Caerleon had established in an out-of-the-way upper room, but in what might be called the State smoking-room, which had been furnished in gorgeous Moorish style by the late king. “Caerleon has a revolver of the kind I was describing, and I believe it’s out and out the best.”
“Let us send for it, if the Prince would like to see it,” said Caerleon.
“I’ll get it,” said Cyril, “if you’ll give me your keys. I’ll get mine too. It’s a newer make, but I’m sure it’s not so good.”
He returned in a few minutes with both weapons, and explained their action to the guests, General Sertchaieff showing special interest in the subject, and examining the mechanism over and over again. Indeed, it appeared almost that he had looked at it too long for his peace of mind, for just before taking his leave, after arranging that the Prince should visit the arsenal in a day or two with Caerleon, in order to inspect the new machinery, which would then be unpacked, he might have been observed to slip Cyril’s revolver into his own pocket, and take it away with him. Cyril did not happen to remember to look for it when he went to bed, and the loss was therefore not discovered. Prince Otto Georg was duly escorted to the rooms he occupied in the front of the palace, Caerleon and Cyril betook themselves to theirs in the southern wing, and silence settled down upon the building.
Cyril had been asleep for some time when he was awakened by a low, hurried tapping at his door. Sitting up in bed, he called to the intruder to come in, wondering sleepily why the sentry in the passage could not keep people from knocking him up in the middle of the night. To his astonishment it was Wright who entered, closing the door carefully behind him, and striking a match on his clothes as he advanced.
“How dare you come here like this, Wright?” demanded Cyril, angrily. “You must be drunk.” Wright took no notice of the accusation, but lit a candle, and placed it in such a position that the mirror came between it and the window.
“No, my lord,” arresting Cyril’s hand as he was about to turn on the electric light, “don’t show no more light, if you vally your life. I’ve been down at the stables, my lord, lookin’ to ’is Majesty’s charger, as was ’urt to-day by the General’s ’orse knockin’ up agin ’im, and when I come back to the ’ouse, I see as things ain’t right. Do your lordship know as there ain’t a single sentry anywheres about? I come all the way up ’ere without meetin’ one, nor a servant neither, right from the door I come in at.”
“Good gracious!” cried Cyril, “there must be something wrong. Can the guards have deserted in a lump?”
“Well, my lord,” said Wright, “they may be all a-sleepin’ quiet in their beds, or they mayn’t.”