“You are quite certain that it is not a mere platonic friendship?” asked the King, fixing his eyes upon the spy very earnestly.
“As a man of the world, your Majesty, I do not think there is such a thing as platonic friendship between man and woman.”
“That is left to poets and dreamers,” remarked the wily Hinckeldeym, with a sneer.
“Besides,” the spy continued, “we have carefully watched this man Bourne, and find that when she went to live at Worthing he followed her there. They meet every evening, and go long walks together.”
“I have watched them many times, your Majesty,” declared Rose Reinherz. “I have seen him kiss her hand.”
“Then, to be frank, you insinuate that this man is her latest lover?” remarked the King with a dark look upon his face.
“Unfortunately, that is so,” the woman replied. “He is with her almost always; and furthermore, after much inquiry and difficulty, we have at last succeeded in establishing who he really is.”
“And who is he?”
“A thief in hiding from the police—one of a clever gang who have committed many robberies of jewels in various cities. This is his photograph—one supplied from London to our own Prefecture of Police in Treysa.” And he handed the King an oblong card with two portraits of Guy Bourne, full face and profile, side by side.
His Majesty held it in his hand, and beneath the light gazed upon it for a long time, as though to photograph the features in his memory.