In turning over his clothes his hand came into contact with his old army revolver.

He scratched his head.

"No, it's too much like a cannon, and there's no room for it in my pockets." He pushed it aside, rose and slammed the lid of the trunk.

"Sprained his ankle?
He wasn't gone more than an hour.

How the deuce is he to see the king to-morrow?
Probably wishes to appoint me his agent.