As his personal-adjutant and keeper of his secrets I had been awaiting him for hours.
I heard him fumbling with the latch-key, and, rising, went along the hall and opened the door.
"Hulloa, Heltzendorff!" he exclaimed in a thick, husky voice. "Himmel! I'm very glad to be back."
"And I am glad to see Your Highness back," I said. "I was beginning to fear that something unpleasant had happened. I tell you frankly, I do not like you going out like this alone in London. Somebody is certain to discover you one day."
"Oh, bosh! my dear Heltzendorff. You are just like a pastor—always preaching." And as he tossed his crush hat upon the table and divested himself of his evening overcoat he gave vent to a half-drunken laugh, and then, just as he was, in his dress-coat and crumpled shirt-front, with the stains of overnight wine upon it, he curled himself upon the couch, saying:
"Tell that idiot of a valet not to disturb me. I'm tired."
"But don't you think you ought to go to bed?" I queried.
"Too tired to undress, Heltzendorff—too tired," he declared with an inane grin. "Oh, I've had a time—phew! my head—such a time! Oh, old Lung Ching is a real old sport!"
And then he settled himself and closed his eyes—surely a fine spectacle for the German nation if he could then have been publicly exhibited.
His mention of Lung Ching caused me to hold my breath. That wily Chinaman kept an establishment in the underworld of Limehouse, an opium den of the worst description, frequented by yellow men and white women of the most debased class.