It all balanced out in the end.

As they approached the sanitarium, Malone breathed a thankful prayer
that he'd called up to tell the head physician how they'd all be
dressed. If he hadn't....

He didn't want to think about that.

He didn't even want to pass it by hurriedly on a dark night.

The head physician, Dr. Frederic Dowson, was waiting for them on the
steps of the building. He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man
with almost no hair and very deep-sunken eyes. He had the kind of face
that a gushing female would probably describe, Malone thought, as
"craggy," but it didn't look in the least attractive to Malone.
Instead, it looked tough and forbidding.

He didn't turn a hair as the magnificently robed Boyd slid from the
front seat, opened the rear door, doffed his plumed hat, and in one
low sweep made a great bow. "We are here, Your Majesty," Boyd said.

Her Majesty got out, clutching at her voluminous skirts in a worried
manner, to keep from catching them on the door-jamb. "You know, Sir
Thomas," she said when she was standing free of the car, "I think we
must be related."

"Ah?" Boyd said worriedly.

"I'm certain of it, in fact," Her Majesty went on. "You look just
exactly like my poor father. Just exactly. I dare say you come from
one of the sinister branches of the family. Perhaps you are a half-
brother of mine--removed, of course."

Malone grinned, and tried to hide the expression. Boyd was looking
puzzled, then distantly angered. Nobody had ever called him
illegitimate in just that way before.

But Her Majesty was absolutely right, Malone thought. The agent had
always reminded him of someone, and now, at last, he knew exactly who.
The hair hadn't been black, either, but red.

Boyd was, in Elizabethan costume, the deadest of dead ringers for
Henry VIII.

Malone went up the steps to where Dr. Dowson was standing.

"I'm Malone," he said, checking a tendency to bow. "I called earlier
today. Is this William Logan of yours ready to go? We can take him
back with us in the second car."

Dr. Dowson compressed his lips and looked worried. "Come in, Mr.
Malone," he said. He turned just as the second carload of FBI agents
began emptying itself over the hospital grounds.

The entire procession filed into the hospital office, the two local
agents following up the rear. Since they were not a part of Her
Majesty's personal retinue, they had not been required to wear court
costumes. In a way, Malone