The Grand Duchess’s voice was plaintive, and pried among the girl’s sick nerves, like hot wire.
“What do you mean, dear? I don’t understand,” she said, dully. “I’m so sorry you are ill. If it’s my fault in any way, I—”
Her mother pointed toward a writing table. “The telegram is there,” she murmured. “It is too distressing—too humiliating.”
Virginia picked up a crumpled telegraph form and began to read the message, which was dated London and written in English. “Some one making inquiries here about the Mowbrays. Beg to advise you to explain all at once, or leave Kronburg, to avoid almost certain complications. Lambert.”
Lady Lambert was the wife of the ex-Ambassador to the Court of Rhaetia from Great Britain.
The Princess finished in silence.
“Isn’t it hideous?” asked the Grand Duchess. “To think that you and I should have deliberately placed ourselves in such a position! We are to run away, like detected adventuresses, unless—unless you are now ready to tell the Emperor all.”
“No,” said Virginia, hopelessly.
“What! Not yet? Oh, my dear, then you must bring matters to a crisis—instantly—to-night even. It’s evident that some enemy—perhaps some jealous person—has been at work behind our backs. It is for you to turn the tables upon him, and there isn’t an hour to waste. From the first, you meant to make some dramatic revelation. Now, the time has come.”
“Ah, I meant—I meant!” echoed Virginia, with a sob breaking the ice in her voice. “Nothing has turned out as I meant. You were right, dear; I was wrong. We ought never to have come to Rhaetia.”