The old man straightened his bent figure with sudden pride. "I am
armourer to the crown, sir. My blades are used by the nobility--not by
the army, I am happy to say. Spantz repairs the swords and guns for the
army, but he welds only for the gentlemen at court."

"I see. Tradition, I suppose."

"My great-grandfather wrought blades for the princes a hundred years
ago. My son will make them after I am gone, and his son after him. I,
sir, have made the wonderful blade with the golden hilt and scabbard
which the little Prince carries on days of state. It was two years in
the making. There is no other blade so fine. It is so short that you
would laugh at it as a weapon, and yet you could bend it double. Ah,
there was a splendid piece of work, sir. You should see the little toy
to appreciate it. There are diamonds and rubies worth 50,000 gavvos set
in the handle. Ah, it is--"

Truxton's eyes were sparkling once more. Somehow he was amused by the
sudden garrulousness of the old armourer. He held up his hand to check
the flow of words.

"I say, Herr Spantz, or Monsieur, perhaps, you are the first man I've
met who has volunteered to go into rhapsodies for my benefit. I'd like
to have a good long chat with you. What do you say to a mug of that
excellent beer over in the Café garden? Business seems to be a little
dull. Can't you--er--lock up?"

Spantz looked at him keenly under his bushy brows, his little black eyes
fairly boring holes into King's brain, so to speak.