nful search after work. With no result. And, indeed, he
was hopeless before he began. He was old and infirm. There was little
that he had even the courage to apply for.

True, he had his small pension, but it came only twice a year, and was
sent, intact, to take care of an invalid daughter in the country. That
was not his. He never used a penny of it. And he had saved a trifle,
by living on air; as the concierge declared. But misfortunes come in
threes, like fires and other calamities. The afternoon of that very day
brought a letter, saying that the daughter was worse and must have
an operation. Old Adelbert went to church and burned a candle for her
recovery, and from there to the bank, to send by registered mail the
surgeon's fee.

He was bankrupt in twenty-four hours.

That evening in his extremity he did a reckless thing. He wrote a letter
to the King. He spent hours over it, first composing it in pencil and
then copying it with ink borrowed from the concierge. It began "Sire,"
as he had learned was the form, and went on to remind His Majesty,
first, of the hospital incident, which, having been forty years ago,
might have slipped the royal memory. Then came the facts--his lost
position, his daughter, the handicap of his wooden leg. It ended with a
plea for reinstatement or, failing that, for any sort of work.

He sent it, unfolded, in a large flat envelope, which also he had
learned was the correct thing with kings, who for some reason or other
do not like folded communications. Then he waited. He considered that a
few hours should bring a return.

No answer came. No answer ever came. For the King was ill, and
secretaries carefully sifted the royal mail.

He waited all of the next day, and out of the mixed emotions of his soul
confided the incident of the letter to Humbert, in his bureau below.

The concierge smiled in his beard. "What does the King care?" he
demanded. "He will never see that letter. And if he did--you have lived
long, my friend. Have you ever known the King to give, or to do anything
but take? Name me but one instance."

And that night, in the concierge's bureau, he was treated to many
incidents, all alike. The Government took, but gave nothing. As well
expect blood out of a stone. Instances were given, heartlessness piled
on heartlessness, one sordid story on another.

And as he listened there died in old Adelbert's soul his flaming love
for his sovereign and his belief in him. His eyes