I unlocked the door, opened it just widely enough to admit the waiting-maid, and promptly shut and locked it again.
‘The Queen knows you are here, but she dares not leave the table for another half hour. At the end of that time she will be in her boudoir, and will admit us.’
I took out my watch, and cursed each dilatory hand.
‘Is the danger so pressing, then?’ asked the frightened woman.
‘I do not know how pressing it is,’ I answered gloomily. ‘I cannot even be sure that Queen Draga will be suffered to leave that table alive.’
‘Oh, you are mistaken there!’ Anna exclaimed. ‘My mistress is safe. She has had a private assurance that she will be allowed to flee.’
‘Has she fled?’ I retorted. I thought I knew Draga better than her servant did.
Silence followed. The knowledge that Prince Peter had evidently contrived to give orders on behalf of the Queen, in the event of violence being employed, soothed me to some extent. Nevertheless, a sad and terrible presentiment warned me to expect the worst.
A low scratching on the inner door, that leading into the Royal boudoir, told us that the victim was still alive. A bolt was withdrawn, and the next moment I found myself in Queen Draga’s presence.
It was the same woman whom I had left a few years ago, in the full bloom of her womanhood, but how changed, how stricken! The harassed brow, the hunted look in the eyes, the grey streaks in the hair, all told me what the difference had been between the lot of the Queen and the simple Countess.