“The white man was bright and keen, Sire.”
“What is your name?” he asked me.
“Joseph, Sire.”
“And his?”
“Christopher, Sire.”
“Those are not Senatra names.”
“Our father was an American, Sire.”
He put me through a further shrewd examination, and I answered readily. It was having a slow but conspicuous effect in heartening him. I was evidently a new and refreshing element, perhaps bringing hope. He appeared satisfied, and asked:
“Have you any suspicions?”
“I have, your Majesty.”