“You are young, Marie, to lie so glibly even for your lover’s sake. Here is the message which summoned you here, written in the King’s handwriting, signed with the King’s name. You left it on the table, so that even the servants might know of the shame which has come upon our House.”
The King crossed the room and looked over Marie’s shoulder. It was indeed his own notepaper, and the writing of those few words strangely resembled his.
“Come now, I am alone.—U.”
The King looked up with grave face.
“It is a forgery!” he said.
“It is a forgery,” Marie echoed, white to the lips.
Nicholas of Reist said nothing. He pointed to the open panel. A look of horror flashed into the girl’s face. She understood.
“Nicholas,” she cried, “that message never came from the King. Where you found it I do not know, but I never saw it before. You must believe me, Nicholas. The King was ignorant of my coming. He was unwilling that I should remain even for a moment.”
“I repeat,” the King said, gravely, “that the writing which you hold in your hands is a forgery, Nicholas. I have never written to your sister in my life. This is part of a plot which shall be sifted to the bottom.”