Louis sank into a chair, deeply agitated.  “I fear this man Von Ritz more deeply than Karyl.”

“Naturally,” was Jusseret’s dry comment.  “But Your Majesty will leave Von Ritz alone.  I also, should like to see him disposed of—­but leave him alone, or you will incur Europe’s displeasure.”

“What shall I do?” The question came in a note of plaintive helplessness.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

“If you ask my counsel, I should say send for one Martin.  He has been of some service.  He is a man of action.  He is called the English Jackal.  I should suggest—­” He paused.

“Yes, yes—­you would suggest what?” eagerly prompted the new King.

“Really, Your Majesty, you should act more promptly on hints.  Diplomats cannot diagram their suggestions.  I should suggest that the English Jackal also travel, with the understanding that if he should return to Galavia after the death of the late King and Queen—­and that shortly—­he may expect certain titles and recognition at Court, but if he returns before their death, he need expect nothing.”  Jusseret lighted a cigarette.

The Pretender sat silent, frightened, vacillating.

“And,” went on Jusseret calmly, “there was one other suggestion which I shall make, if Your Majesty will permit me the liberty.”

“What?”

“Touching Your Majesty’s marriage—­”

“Yes—­Marie is also in some hurry about that.  What is the devilish haste?  One can be married at any time.”

Monsieur Jusseret rose and began drawing on his gloves.

“Of course if Your Majesty sees fit, a morganatic marriage with the Countess Astaride would be entirely advisable—­but for the Queen of Galavia, Europe will insist on a stronger alliance; on a union with more royal blood.”

Louis came to his feet in astonishment.

“You dare suggest that?” he exclaimed.  “You, who have been her ally and used her aid!”

“Pardon me—­I suggest nothing.  I repeat to Your Majesty, as the very humble mouthpiece of France, the sentiment of the governments, without whose recognition your dynasty can hardly stand.”

CHAPTER XXV

ABDUL SAID BEY EFFECTS A RESCUE

Martin, tall and aggressively British, from the black silk tassel on his red fez to the battered puttees and brown boots that had once come out of Bond Street, stood watching the Isis outlined against the opposite walls of the Yildiz Kiosk.

Few pleasure-craft call at Constantinople.

“If you had not, as usual, been so damned late”—­he turned with a gesture of raw impatience to the heavy-faced Osmanli at his side—­“I could have pointed them out to you on Galata Bridge.  As it is, they have returned to the yacht.”

“May Heaven never again thwart your wish with delay, Martin Effendi.”  The Turk spoke placidly, his oily voice soft as a benediction, “I was delayed by pigs, and sons of pigs!  Your annoyance is my desolating sorrow, yet”—­he waved his hand with a bland gesture—­“I am but the servant of His Majesty, the Sultan—­whom Allah preserve—­and the official is frequently detained.”