“He that stands there — the rightful King of England. And he shall tell you himself where it lies — then you will believe he knew it of his own knowledge. Bethink thee, my King — spur thy memory — it was the last, the very last thing thou didst that day before thou didst rush forth from the palace, clothed in my rags, to punish the soldier that insulted me.”

A silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and all eyes were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head and corrugated brow, groping in his memory among a thronging multitude of valueless recollections for one single little elusive fact, which, found, would seat him upon a throne — unfound, would leave him as he was, for good and all — a pauper and an outcast.

Moment after moment passed —