CHAPTER TWELVE
IT was spring again, and as if the change of weather or the indefatigable work of winter had worn him to laxity, Kent sat in his private office, for once idle. The king, wearing another business suit that had also assumed bags at the knees, came hurriedly in and closed the door behind him.
"Hello!" said the American, swinging around to greet him. "What's up? You look worried."
"I am!" was the king's reply, as he threw himself into a chair and wiped his brow. "I've got the worst of news."
"Where did you get it?" asked Kent, with a grin that the king did not return.
"Down in the village," he said. "Two or three of the men I have made friends came to warn me. I listened and came back here as quickly as I could to talk it over with you. Provarsk has been undermining us again."
Kent's eyes twinkled and he settled back into his chair and lighted his pipe.
"Is that so!" he exclaimed, without excitement. "Well, what do you think you ought to do about it?"
