"You are awake, Monsieur?"
Fandor was amazed. What charming manners the police had!
"Oh, yes, I'm awake, but I feel stiff all over."
"That is easily understood, and I hope you will pardon ... You see, I didn't happen to be at the station ... and when I got here ... why, I didn't like to wake you."
"They take me for a friend of the King of Hesse-Weimar," thought Fandor.
"You did perfectly right, Monsieur ..."
"M. Perrajas, District Commissioner of Police ... and the circumstances being such ... the unfortunate circumstances ... I imagine it was better that you did not return immediately to your apartment ... in fact, I have given the necessary orders and in a few moments ... the time to get a carriage ... I can, of course, rely upon the discretion of my men who, besides, are ignorant of ..."
"Oh, that's all right."
Fandor replied in a non-committal tone. It would be wiser to avoid any compromising admission. A carriage! — what carriage, doubtless the Black Maria to take him to prison. And what did he mean by 'the discretion of his men?'
"Well," thought Fandor, "he can count upon me. I shan't publish anything yet. And after all, it's going to be very hard for me to prove my innocence. Since I must rely on the King getting me out of this hole, it would be very foolish of me to give him away."
"Besides," continued the officer, "I have had the concièrge warned; she has received the most positive orders ... and no reporter will be allowed to get hold of ..."
The officer became confused in his explanation.
"The incidents of last night," added Fandor.
A knock at the door and Sergeant Masson entered.
"The coupé is ready."
"Very well, Sergeant."
Fandor rose and was about to put on his overcoat, but the man darted forward and helped him on with it.
"Do you wish me to come with you, Monsieur, or would you prefer to return alone?"
"Oh, alone, thanks, don't trouble yourself."
The door was opened wide by the polite officer and Fandor passed through the main hall of the Station, where everyone rose and bowed. Getting into his carriage, he was disagreeably surprised to see an individual who appeared to be a plain clothes man sitting on the seat. In addition a police cyclist fell in behind the carriage as escort.
"Where the devil are they going to take me?" he wondered.
To his intense surprise, they stopped ten minutes later at the Royal Palace, the most luxurious hotel in Paris.
With infinite deference he was then conducted to the elevator and taken to the first floor.
"Well, this lets me out," thought Fandor. "Evidently the King has sent for me ... in a few minutes I shall be free ... what a piece of luck!"
He was shown into a sumptuous apartment and there left to his own devices.
"Wonder what's become of Frederick-Christian," he muttered, after a wait of twenty minutes. "It's worse than being at the dentist's."
As the room was very warm, Fandor removed his overcoat and began an investigation of his surroundings. Upon a table lay several illustrated papers and picking one up he seated himself comfortably in an armchair and began to read.
Some minutes later a Major-domo entered the room with much ceremony and silently presented him with a card. This turned out to be a menu.
"Well, they're not going to let me starve anyway," he thought, "and as long as the King has asked me to breakfast, I'll accept his invitation."
Choosing several dishes at random, he returned the menu, and the man, bowing deeply, inquired:
"Where shall we serve breakfast? In the boudoir?"
"Yes, in the boudoir."
The bow ended the interview and Fandor was once more left alone. But not for long. Close upon the heels of the first, a second man entered and handed the journalist a telegram and withdrew.
"Ah, now I shall get some explanation of all this mystery! This should come from the King.... Has he got my name?... No!... the Duke of Haworth ... evidently the name of the individual I am supposed to represent."
Fandor tore open the telegram and then stared in surprise. Not one word of it could he make out. It was in cipher!
"Why the deuce was this given to me!... what does the whole thing mean? Is it possible they take me for...."
CHAPTER V
BY THE SINGING FOUNTAINS
Paris rises very late indeed on New Year's Day. The night before is given up to family reunions, supper parties and every kind of jollification. So the year begins with a much needed rest. The glitter and racket of the streets gives place to a death-like stillness. Shops are shut and the cafés are empty. Paris sleeps. There is an exception to this rule: Certain unfortunate individuals are obliged to rise at day-break, don their best clothes, their uniforms and make their way to the four corners of the town to pay ceremonial calls.
These are the Government officials representing the army, the magistracy, the parliament, the municipality — all must pay their respects to their chiefs. For this hardship they receive little sympathy, as it is generally understood that while they have to work hard on New Year's Day, they do nothing for the rest of the year.
The somnolence of Paris, however, only extends until noon. At that hour life begins again. It is luncheon time.
This New Year's Day differed in no wise from others, and during the afternoon the streets were thronged with people.
A pale sun showed in the gray winter sky and the crowd seemed to be converging toward the Place de la Concorde. Suddenly the blare of a brass band on the Rue Royale brought curious heads to the windows.
A procession headed by a vari-colored banner was marching toward the banks of the Seine. The participants wore a mauve uniform with gold trimmings and upon the banner was inscribed in huge letters:
LA CAPITALE
THE GREAT EVENING PAPER
With some difficulty the musicians reached the Obelisk and at the foot of the monument they formed a circle, while at a distance the crowd awaited developments.
In the front rank two young women were standing.
One of them seemed to be greatly amused at the gratuitous entertainment, the other appeared preoccupied and depressed.
"Come, Marie Pascal, don't be so absent-minded. You look as if you were at a funeral."
The other, a workgirl, tried to smile and gave a deep sigh.
"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Rose, to be out of sorts, but I feel very upset."
Two police officers tried to force their way to the musicians and after some difficulty they succeeded in arresting the flute and the trombone players.
This act of brutality occasioned some commotion and the crowd began to murmur.
The employés of La Capitale now brought up several handcarts and improvised a sort of platform. Gentlemen in frock coats then appeared on the scene and gathered round it. One or two were recognized and pointed out by the crowd.
"There's M. Dupont, the deputy and director of La Capitale."
A red-faced young man with turned up moustaches was pronounced to be M. de Panteloup, the general manager of the paper.
As a matter