“Then you know your part. Now, gentlemen, to the king.”
“Well,” said an angry voice outside, “I wondered how long I was to be kept waiting.”
Rudolf Rassendyll skipped behind the curtain. Sapt’s revolver slipped into a handy pocket. Rischenheim stood with arms dangling by his side and his waistcoat half unbuttoned. Young Bernenstein was bowing low on the threshold, and protesting that the king’s servant had but just gone, and that they were on the point of waiting on his Majesty. Then the king walked in, pale and full-bearded.
“Ah, Count,” said he, “I’m glad to see you. If they had told me you were here, you shouldn’t have waited a minute. You’re very dark in here, Sapt. Why don’t you draw back the curtains?” and the king moved towards the curtain behind which Rudolf was.
“Allow me, sire,” cried Sapt, darting past him and laying a hand on the curtain.
A malicious gleam of pleasure shot into Rischenheim’s eyes. “In truth, sire,” continued the constable, his hand on the curtain, “we were so interested in what the count was saying about his dogs—”
“By heaven, I forgot!” cried the king. “Yes, yes, the dogs. Now tell me, Count—”
“Your pardon, sire,” put in young Bernenstein, “but breakfast waits.”
“Yes, yes. Well, then, we’ll have them together—breakfast and the dogs. Come along, Count.” The king passed his arm through Rischenheim’s, adding to Bernenstein, “Lead the way, Lieutenant; and you, Colonel, come with us.”
They went out. Sapt stopped and locked the door behind him. “Why do you lock the door, Colonel?” asked the king.