e in
sight round the right. The young Queen was bowing to the people, gently,
and with a sort of mechanical regularity. Now and then a brighter
smile than that she conventionally wore lighted up her face. The simple
progress was absolutely without state, except for the aide-de-camp on
horseback who rode beside the carriage, a little to the front.

Boyne stood motionless on the curb, where a friendly tall Dutchman had
placed him in front that he might see the Queen.

"Hello!" said the voice of Trannel, and elbowing his way to Boyne's
side, he laughed and coughed through the smoke of his cigarette. "I was
afraid you had lost me. Where's your carriage?"

Boyne did not notice his mockeries. He was entranced in that beatific
vision; his boy-heart went out in worship to the pretty young creature
with a reverence that could not be uttered. The tears came into his
eyes.

"There, there! She's bowing to you, Boyne, she's smiling right at you.
By Jove! She's beckoning to you!"

"You be still!" Boyne retorted, finding his tongue. "She isn't doing any
such a thing."

"She is, I swear she is! She's doing it again! She's stopping the
carriage. Oh, go out and see what she wants! Don't you know that a
queen's wish is a command? You've got to go!"

Boyne never could tell just how it happened. The carriage did seem to be
stopping, and the Queen seemed to be looking at him. He thought he
must, and he started into the street towards her, and the carriage came
abreast of him. He had almost reached the carriage when the aide turned
and spurred his horse before him. Four strong hands that were like iron
clamps were laid one on each of Boyne's elbows and shoulders, and he was
haled away, as if by superhuman force. "Mr. Trannel!" he called out in
his agony, but the wretch had disappeared, and Boyne was left with his
captors, to whom he could have said nothing if he could have thought of
anything to say.

The detectives pulled him through the crowd and hurried him swiftly down
the side street. A little curiosity straggled after him in the shape
of small Dutch boys, too short to look over the shoulders of men at the
queens, and too weak to make their way through them to the front; but
for them, Boyne seemed alone in the world with the relentless officers,
who were dragging him forward and hurting him so with the grip of their
iron hands. He lifted up his face to entreat them not to hold him so
tight, and suddenly it was as if he beheld a