I happened across these words:

"The King and all the men of the land having left to fight the wicked
Barodians, Euralia was now a country of women only--_a country in
which even a King might be glad to be a subject_."

Now what does this mean? Is it another example of literary theft? I
have already had to expose Shelley. Must I now drag into the light of
day a still worse plagiarism by Roger Scurvilegs? The waste-paper
baskets of the Palace were no doubt open to him as to so many
historians. But should he not have made acknowledgments?

I do not wish to be hard on Roger. That I differ from him on many
points of historical fact has already been made plain, and will be
made still more plain as my story goes on. But I have a respect for
the man; and on some matters, particularly those concerning Prince Udo
of Araby's first appearance in Euralia, I have to rely entirely upon
him for my information. Moreover I have never hesitated to give him
credit for such of his epigrams as I have introduced into this book,
and I like to think that he would be equally punctilious to others.
We know his romantic way; no doubt the thought occurred to him
independently. Let us put it at that, anyhow.

Belvane, meanwhile, was getting on. The King had drawn his sword on
her and she had not flinched. As a reward she was to be the power
behind the throne.

"Not necessarily _behind_ the throne," said Belvane to herself.

CHAPTER IV

THE PRINCESS HYACINTH LEAVES IT TO THE COUNTESS

It is now time to introduce Wiggs to you, and I find myself in a
difficulty at once. What _was_ Wiggs's position in the Palace?

This story is hard to tell, for I have to piece it together from the
narratives of others, and to supply any gaps in their stories from my
knowledge of how the different characters might be expected to act.
Perhaps, therefore, it is a good moment in which to introduce to you
the authorities upon whom I rely.

First and foremost, of course, comes Roger Scurvilegs. His monumental
work, _Euralia Past and Present_, in seventeen volumes, towers upon my
desk as I write. By the merest chance I picked it up (in a
metaphorical sense) at that little shop near--I forget its name, but
it's the third bookshop on the left as you come into London from the
New Barnet end. Upon him I depend for the broad lines of my story,
and I have already indicated my opinion of the value of his work.

Secondly, come the many legends and ba