"Run like the devil!"

At that instant the boy King and his Queen Mother, herself still
young and beautiful, and cloaked with a dignity and sorrow that
her robes of mourning could not intensify, appeared in the
doorway.

"Go back, sir!" warned Philip. "He means to kill you!"

At the words and at sight of the struggling men, the great lady
swayed helplessly, her eyes filled with terror. Her son sprang
protectingly in front of her. But the danger was past. A second
policeman was now holding the maniac by the wrists, forcing his
arms above his head; Philip's arms, like a lariat, were wound
around his chest; and from his pocket the first policeman
gingerly drew forth a round, black object of the size of a glass
fire-grenade. He held it high in the air, and waved his free hand
warningly. But the warning was unobserved. There was no one
remaining to observe it. Leaving the would-be assassin struggling
and biting in the grasp of the stalwart policeman, and the other
policeman unhappily holding the bomb at arm's length, Philip
sought to escape into the Ritz. But the young King broke through
the circle of attendants and stopped him.

"I must thank you," said the boy eagerly; "and I wish you to tell
me how you came to suspect the man's purpose."

Unable to speak the truth, Philip, the would-be writer of
fiction, began to improvise fluently.