The Slavic fox was of a pallid fairness, he had a remarkably long nose,
a thick, short moustache, and small blue eyes that were a little too
near together to be pleasant. It was his habit to worry his moustache
with short, nervous tugs whenever his restless mind troubled him, and
now this motion was becoming so incessant that it irked Pestovitch
beyond the limits of endurance.
'I will go,' said the minister, 'and see what the trouble is with the
wireless. They give us nothing, good or bad.'
Left to himself, the king could worry his moustache without stint; he
leant his elbows forward on the balcony and gave both of his long white
hands to the work, so that he looked like a pale dog gnawing a bone.
Suppose they caught his men, what should he do? Suppose they caught his
men?
The clocks in the light gold-capped belfries of the town below presently
intimated the half-hour after midday.
Of course, he and Pestovitch had thought it out. Even if they had caught
those men, they were pledged to secrecy.... Probably they would be
killed in the catching.... One could deny anyhow, deny and deny.
And then he became aware of half a dozen little shining specks very high
in the blue.... Pestovitch came out to him presently. 'The government
messages, sire, have all dropped into cipher,' he said.
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