Nikky had been a reckless fool, but he was brave enough. He smiled, a
better smile than Karl's twisted one.

"I have a fancy," said King Karl, "to manage this matter for myself.
Keep back, Kaiser. Now, my friend, you will give me the packet of
cigarette papers you carry."

Resistance would do no good. Nikky brought them out, and Karl's twisted
smile grew broader as he compared them with the ones the envelope had
contained.

"You see," he said, "you show the hand of the novice. You should have
thrown these away. But, of course, all your methods are wrong. Why, for
instance, have you come here at all? You have my man--but that I shall
take up later. We will first have the letter."

But here Nikky stood firm. Let them find the letter. He would not
help them. But again he cursed himself. There had been a thousand
hiding-places along the road--but he must bring the incriminating thing
with him, and thus condemn himself!

Now commenced a curious scene, curious because one of the actors
was Karl of Karnia himself. He seemed curiously loath to bring in
assistance, did Karl. Or perhaps the novelty of the affair appealed to
him. And Nikky's resistance to search, with that revolver so close, was
short-lived.

Even while he was struggling, Nikky was thinking. Let them get the
letter, if they must. Things would at least be no worse than before.
But he resolved that no violence would tear from him the place where the
messenger was hidden. Until they had got that, he had a chance for life.

They searched his cap last. Nikky, panting after that strange struggle,
saw Kaiser take it from the lining of his cap, and pass it to the King.

Karl took it. The smile was gone now, and something ugly and terrible
had taken its place. But that, too, faded as he looked at the letter.

It was a blank piece of note-paper.

CHAPTER XV. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

With the approach of the anniversary of his son's death, the King grew
increasingly restless. Each year he determined to put away this old
grief, and each year, as his bodily weakness increased, he found it
harder to do so. In vain he filled his weary days with the routine of
his kingdom. In vain he told himself that there were worse things than
to be cut off in one's prime, that the tragedy of old age is a long
tragedy, with but one end. To have out-lived all that one loves, he
felt, was worse by far. To have driven, in one gloomy procession after
another, to the old Capuchin