The Treasurer leaped to a press and tore out a robe. “Go!” he screamed over his shoulder.
In a minute they all came hurrying in—comptroller, secretary, clerks, grooms, and underlings—in dress or in undress, a motley crew, as the occasion had found them.
“What is it, my lord?” asked the first in an astonished voice. He was a tall, pallid man, so inured to method and routine that a rat behind the wainscot was enough to throw him into a flutter.
“Master Hugh,” cried the Treasurer—“Master Hugh! I found that in my pocket when I came to strip—a thing that I had never put there, or put unconsciously. What do you make of it, my friend? What does it import?”
They all gathered round the comptroller to read the billet, and, having examined it, fell apart with grave, inquiring faces.
The comptroller looked up, his lips trembling.
“My lord,” he said, “it can signify but one thing.”
“My assassination?”
“Without doubt, my lord.”
The Treasurer turned pale to the bare dome of his head. He had to the last hoped to have his worst apprehensions refuted; but it was plain that only one construction could be put upon the missive.