During the whole of this fantastic business my excitement had been growing fast. I knew that with comparatively few exceptions all the people present were dead against me and in favor of the Ostenburg interest. For months—for years, indeed—they had been working, striving, and plotting for the end which they now thought to be within their reach. Among them, as I had had abundant evidence, were men desperate enough to stop short of no excesses to gain that end, and yet I was seeking to checkmate them in the very hour of success by a single bold stroke.
All the men who had taken a leading part in the plot had dispersed among the audience, each having a definite part assigned to him. I myself stood apart leaning against a pillar, with Steinitz not far from me, and when the procession had just passed me a deep voice close to my ear said:
"A striking ceremonial, Prince."
I looked round, and thought I recognized the lithe, sinewy face of the Corsican Praga, whose dark, glittering eyes were staring at me through his mask.
"Very striking. Who are you?" I asked cautiously.
"I carry the tools of my trade," he replied, touching lightly his sword. "And I am badly in want of work."
"Why are you here?"
"I am a sort of postman—I bring news of the mail."
I understood the play of the words, and knew him by it for certain.
"And what is the news?"