“My weapons were sharpened on my past acquaintance with the pretty lady,” explained the Prince. “Otherwise the result might have been postponed for as many days as I have delayed moments, though at last, the end might have been the same.”
“Not for Rhaetia. Every instant counts. Thanks to you, we shall win; for actress as this girl is, she’ll find it a task beyond her powers to justify to a jealous man this evening’s tête-a-tête with you.”
“If she tests those powers in our presence, we can be audience and admire her histrionic talents,” said the Prince, pleasantly, though with some faint, growing sign of constraint or perhaps impatience. “There’s no doubt in my mind, whatever may be the lady’s conception of her part, about the final tableau. And after all, it’s with that alone you concern yourself—eh, Chancellor?”
“It’s that alone,” echoed the old man.
“Then you would like to go and await the message. There’s nothing more for us to arrange. Au revoir, Chancellor, till nine.”
“Till nine.”
“When the curtain for the last act will ring up.”
The Prince held out his hand. Count von Breitstein grasped it, and then hurried to his electric carriage which had been waiting outside the hotel. A few minutes later, he was talking over the wire to the Emperor in the railway station at Felgarde.