hispered the gentle voice of Marie Pascal, "may I remind you of
a promise? Dare I ask for a souvenir?" She pointed to a photograph of
Frederick-Christian II.

"All right, all right," growled Fandor, "take it."

She then handed him a pen and asked him to write a dedication.

"No, I'll be hanged if I do," cried Fandor. Then seeing that the young
girl was beginning to cry again, he added:

"My dear Marie Pascal, I am very sorry but it is against the rule for me
to write a single word on my portrait.... It is against the
Constitution." The journalist searched through his pockets to find
something he might give her as compensation, and then clasped her to his
heart as the only thing possible to do under the circumstances. At this
moment a servant entered and gravely announced:

"Sire, Wulfenmimenglaschk is here." Had the sun or the moon or the King
himself been announced Fandor's amazement would not have been greater.
Marie Pascal was about to slip away embarrassed, hardly capable of
leaving in so much happiness, when Fandor recalled her.

"Mademoiselle!"

"Sire!"

"What you told me just now about the torn lace you had better repeat at
police headquarters." Then in a lower tone he continued his
instructions. When he had finished she nodded her head.

Yes, she would go and find Juve, the detective Juve, as the King had
ordered her, and she would tell him everything.

The servant was waiting motionless for the King's answer.

"Wulfenmimenglaschk," thought he, "that must be one of those
extraordinary German-American cocktails which Frederick-Christian is
accustomed to order." He turned to the servant:

"Pour it out." At the man's surprise Fandor realized that he had made a
mistake. At this moment a very fat man with scarlet face and pointed
moustache appeared in the doorway and gave the military salute,
announcing in a voice of thunder:

"Wulfenmimenglaschk!"

"Good God," murmured the journalist, dropping into an armchair. "This
time I'm dished. He's come from Hesse-Weimar."

CHAPTER IX

A PARTY OF THREE

Juve was busy searching in a bureau drawer while Marie Pascal was going
through piles of linen in her cupboard.

"You are sure you put it there?" asked Juve. "Madame Ceiron hasn't by
any chance taken it away, has she?"

"Oh, no," replied Marie Pascal, "I am quite sure I locked it in my
drawer, and locked the door of my room as well."

The room had been turned completely topsy-turvy, while Juve