Long Live the King!

When we had saluted him, we sat down to the perusal of our mails. I had opened the greater portion of my correspondence, when I came upon a letter, the handwriting of which was quite unknown to me. Before reading it, I glanced at the signature, but "James Whittadge," or the fact that he was the house surgeon at the famous Samaritan Hospital, told me nothing. I accordingly turned the page and began to read the letter. This is what I found:

"The Samaritan Hospital, London,

"24th December, 18 —

"To H.R.H. Prince Paul of Pannonia.

"Sir, —

"The fact that I have been requested by a patient named Thomas Gulliver, now an inmate of this hospital, to communicate with you with as little delay as possible, must serve as my excuse for my presumption in addressing you direct. In common with all the world, I have heard of your Royal Highness' attempt to discover the whereabouts of your brother, the Crown Prince of Pannonia. I am not aware, however, whether you have since learnt his address; if not, it may be of service to you to know that the man Gulliver, to whom I referred just now, declares that he is in a position to give you important information upon that point. He is extremely reticent upon the subject, and avers that he will say nothing about it to anyone, until he has seen you. Should you deem his story worthy of your consideration, I would take the liberty of suggesting an immediate interview, as I fear the man, who is in an extremely dangerous condition, is scarcely likely to be alive for any length of time.

"I have the honour to be,

"Your Royal Highness' obedient servant,

"James Whittadge,

"House Surgeon, Samaritan Hospital."

When I had finished the letter, I read it aloud to the others. Then there was a silence, which lasted while a man might have counted twenty. My mother was the first to speak.

"Can it be true, Paul, do you think? or is it only another attempt to extort money from us?" she asked, in a choking voice.

"It is impossible to answer that question until we have seen the man himself," I replied. "As far as the writer of the letter is concerned, it seems genuine enough. What do you think I had better do?"

"Would it not be advisable for you to go up to town and see the man at once?" said Ottilie, who, noticing that my mother was trembling, had crossed the room and taken her hand.

"Go to London at once, and see this Gulliver, Paul," said my father. "It is just possible he may have something to tell you. If you delay it may be too late."

"In that case I will go," I replied.

With that, I had a hurried lunch, and was driven to the station.

As good luck had it, a mail boat had arrived in Southampton that morning, and, in consequence, I was able to travel to town by the special train conveying the passengers and mails. It stopped only at Basingstoke; in consequence, Big Ben was striking four o'clock when my cab pulled up before the big doors of the Samaritan Hospital.

Having discharged my cabman, I ascended the steps, and rang the bell. A moment later the door was opened by a porter. He inquired my business in an off-hand manner, and, when I informed him that I wished to see a patient named Gulliver, told me to step inside, and sit down in the hall while he made the necessary inquiries.

"What name shall I say?" he asked, giving me very plainly to understand by his look that he reserved the right to say whether he would believe my statement or not.

"You might tell Dr. Whittadge that Prince Paul of Pannonia is here, in response to a letter he received from him this morning," I said.

The man's eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. In a moment his manner had entirely changed.

"I beg your Royal Highness' pardon," he said apologetically, and then, with delightful ingenuousness, added, "I didn't know it was you. If your Royal Highness will be kind enough to step this way to the secretary's office, I will go in search of Dr. Whittadge at once."

I accordingly followed him down the stone corridor to a comfortably furnished apartment, where I waited while he went off on his errand. By this time I was as nervous as any schoolgirl. So much depended upon the next half-hour, that I could scarcely contain my impatience or my anxiety. I paced up and down the little room, examined the photos of various benefactors that decorated the walls, and then rejoiced, as my ears caught the sound of a business-like step on the stones outside. A moment later the door opened, and a tall, gentlemanly man, who I rightly guessed was none other than Doctor Whittadge, entered the room.

"Have I the honour of addressing Prince Paul of Pannonia?" he inquired, closing the door behind him.

"That is my name," I answered. "I received a letter from you this morning, informing me that a patient named Gulliver under your charge, declares that he knows the whereabouts of my brother."

"That is so," the doctor replied. "The man states that he has not only seen your brother, but has spoken to him. He will not, however, reveal the name of the place, or say anything more concerning it, to anyone save yourself. If you would care to see him, I will conduct you to the ward. I must ask, however, that you will make the interview as short as possible, for the man is in a highly dangerous condition.

"He is a sailor, and was badly injured two days ago by a fall from the rigging of a ship. If your Highness is ready, shall we proceed upstairs?"

"By all means," I answered.

Then without delay he led me upstairs to one of the principal wards.

"Gulliver is in here," he said in a whisper. Beckoning one of the nurses to him, he said something to her in a low voice, after which, inviting me to follow him, he led the way towards a bed at the further end of the room. A screen had been placed before it, and, when we approached, a nurse was feeding the sick man from an invalid cup. He proved to be a rough-looking fellow, between thirty and forty years of age.

The doctor felt his pulse, and then, placing a chair beside the bed, invited me to seat myself.

"Gulliver," he said, bending over him and speaking in a low voice, "this is Prince Paul of Pannonia, whose brother's whereabouts you profess to be able to reveal."

"So I can, sir," said the sick man feebly, turning his head and staring at me. "I know where 'e is, or ought to be, at this 'ere moment. But afore I gives it away, I want to know what I'm a-goin' to git for my information. That's only business, I reckon."

He paused for a moment to recover his breath.

"It isn't for meself I cares," he continued, "but the doctor 'ere tells me I'm a-goin' to slip me cable before long, and that bein' so, who's a-goin' to pervide for the missus and the kids?"

He gazed fixedly at me, as if he were waiting for an answer to his question.

"If your information is really valuable," I replied, "I shall be very happy to pay you a substantial price for it. But you must be able to convince me first that it is genuine. Have you any definite sum in your mind?"

"Well, sir," the man returned, "if I puts you on his track, I reckon it's worth a 'undred quid to yer, isn't it?"

"I will pay you a hundred pounds with pleasure," I answered.

"But you must let me see the brass first," he returned. "I can't afford to take no risks."

"Come, come, my man," said the doctor, shocked at his discourtesy, "if his Royal Highness is good enough to promise you the money, surely that should be sufficient. Remember with whom you are dealing."

"I shall be past rememberin' anything, d'rectly," the other replied. "I don't mean to offend, but wot I wants is to make sure of the blunt. Prince, or no Prince, I don't part with no information till I have seen that for myself. You wouldn't either if you was me."

Fortunately, I had brought my cheque-book with me, thinking circumstances might arise in which I might stand in need of it.

"Never mind," I said to the surgeon, "we won't dispute the matter. If you can let me have a pen and ink, I will draw a cheque in favour of his wife for the amount in question. Should his information prove to be worth it, she can keep the money; if not, well, in that case, the cheque can be destroyed."

The draft was soon completed, and we returned with it to the bedside. The dying man took the cheque in his hand and examined it carefully.

"I 'ate these 'ere bits of paper," he said. "But I reckon it's all right. Anyways, I'm willing to chance it. Now, sir, leastways, your Royal Highness, if you're ready, I'll tell yer all I knows. You mustn't mind if I'm a bit slow. Talking ain't as easy as it used to be."

He paused once more while the doctor glanced anxiously at him. Then he nodded his head, and the man commenced.

"It was this way, yer see, twelve months ago, come March, I shipped from Cardiff A.B. aboard the Brazilian Monarch steamer, owned by Guthrie, Blake & Williamson, bound for Rio, and consigned to Montezma & Co., merchants, of that city. As soon as we got in we anchored in the harbour, and the Spaniard's managin' clerk came aboard as usual to see the skipper. Now I make bold to say that the managin' clerk I saw that day was your Royal 'Ighness's own brother."

My heart sank. It did not look as if the information he was able to give me were likely to have any greater value than that we had received from other people.