“There’s the full case—with dates, details, names of witnesses, proofs, everything—in the charge against you in that Lavalski matter.”
I saw his hand tighten on the arm of his chair, and a muttered oath slipped out from the pressed lips in a whisper. Save for that one truant whisper, his face was as pale and immobile as death itself.
The sight of his tense emotion satisfied even my bitterness against him, and I held my tongue, speculating what he would do.
He found the problem beyond even his ingenuity for a time at least, and sat thinking, trying to see a course that was not fraught with real danger. He had guarded this secret jealously; fought for it with desperate vigilance; flourished on it prosperously for years until he had reached so high; and now exposure menaced him with all its consequences of overthrow, ruin and disgrace.
I knew he would fight on doggedly, if only he could find the means of fighting. But where he would look for them I could not see.
The silence lasted for minutes, and then he moved. He had apparently thought the thing out and made his choice. At length he spoke.
“This Lavalski charge is false, monsieur,” he said.
“Intentionally false, no,” I answered. “Mademoiselle Helga is incapable of deliberate falsehood. Mistaken, possibly. The inquiry which his Majesty will order on hearing the charge will no doubt settle its truth or mistake. That is all that is needed.”
“His Majesty will order no inquiry, monsieur.”