out of gear, but Richard Royson was hard as granite in some ways, and
the mere decision to go to South Africa had driven the day's
distempered broodings from his mind.

"I thought I heard the officer who spoke to you in Buckingham Palace
Road address you as King," explained von Kerber.

"Yes, that is true," admitted Royson. He felt that it would savor of
the ridiculous, in his present circumstances, were he to state his
nickname in full and explain the significance of it. In fact, he was
resolved to accept the five-pound note which the Baron would probably
offer him, and be thankful for it. Hence, the pseudonym rather soothed
his pride.

Von Kerber placed the Arabic scrawl under a paperweight. He was a man
who plumed himself on a gift of accurate divination. Such a belief is
fatal. For the third time that day, he misunderstood the Englishman's
hesitancy.

"What's in a name?" he quoted, smilingly. "Suppose I continue to call
you King? It is short, and easily remembered, and your English names
puzzle me more than your language, which is difficult enough, yes?"

"Then we can leave it at that," agreed Royson.

"I thought so. Well, to come to business. What can you do?"

"It would be better, perhaps, if you told me what you want me to do."

"Can you ride?"