review wherein the stage prototypes of the Parisian band of exiled
monarchs addressed each other by high sounding titles and incidentally
sought to borrow five-franc pieces.

"If I possessed some literary skill, I could write a review that would
set the world talking," he mused, smiling to himself as he ascended the
stairs to his own suite.

"What is the matter, old chap?" demanded Beaumanoir, strolling into his
friend's dressing room a few minutes later. Lord Adalbert never hurried
unless he was on horseback. He was in evening dress, and an opera hat
was set rakishly on the back of his head. He was smoking, his hands were
thrust into his pockets, and the mere sight of him served again to
remind Alec of the larger world in whose daily round Kosnovia and its
troubles filled so insignificant a part.

In an oddly jubilant mood, Alec took a pencil and wrote in large
characters on Beaumanoir's immaculate shirt front, "Paris--with care."

His chum read. "The answer is?" he asked.

"We are leaving Delgratz to-night, Berty. That is all."

"You don't say!" He glanced down at the label. "Is this the address?"

"Yes."

Beaumanoir screwed his cigar firmly into the corner of his mouth. "I am
pretty rapid myself, Alec," he grinned; "but you are too sudden
altogether. Tell me just what you mean, there's a dear fellow."

"I take it you don't want to remain here without me, Berty," said Alec
cheerily, "and I am off. I chucked up my job half an hour ago. Joan and
Felix started by the mail train that left here at half-past five. We
follow at midnight. My mother goes with us. As Bosko is giving her maid
a hand in the packing, I must look after my own traps. Nesimir's
servants would talk, which is just what I want to avoid. The two days
in the train will give you plenty of time to learn the harrowing
details. I have a pretty story for you; but it must wait. I am not
cracked, nor sprung, nor trying to be funny; so you need not look at me
in that way. I am out of business as a King, for good and all, and the
sooner I cross the frontier, the better it will be for my health."

"Honor bright, Alec?"

"Every syllable. Now, get a hustle on!"

There was a tap at the door, and a servant entered with a note for the
King. It was from Constantine Beliani, and written in French.

Prince Michael and Count Julius Marulitch have decided that, in the
interests of the State, you ought to make a formal abdication of
the throne,