“What would you have me do?” he asked, firmly. “State clearly your wishes.”
Posadowski’s face was almost benignant, as his eyes rested sorrowfully on the disturbed countenance of the prince.
“I regret to tell you, Prince Carlo, that your father is very dangerously ill,” said the arch-conspirator, gently.
The young man sprang up from his seat in dismay.
“My God!” he cried, “can you find the heart to lie to me at such a time as this? My father, the king, is not ill. You are deceiving me, for some purpose I cannot grasp.”
Posadowski drew himself up to his full height and gazed at the prince with wounded dignity.
“I do not lie to you, Prince Carlo,” he said firmly, in a low voice. “I received a cable despatch in cipher direct from the palace this morning.”
Prince Carlo had sunk back into his chair, and was glancing feverishly from one Rexanian to another, seemingly in the hope that one of them would come to his aid and give the lie to Posadowski. But there was that in the faces and manner of the men surrounding him that slowly but surely impressed him with the conviction that he was not again a victim of subterfuge—that what Posadowski had told him was indeed the truth.
The youth’s hand trembled and his cheeks burned as he felt the tears welling from his eyes. Recovering himself instantly, he gazed earnestly at Posadowski, as though he would read the man’s very soul.
“Do you mean to tell me that you are in communication with the palace at Rexopolis?”