"Got away, I expect," he muttered. "A precious near thing, anyway. But if he is clear off the premises I may as well go this way myself."
So close did Mazaroff pass the other two that Lechmere could easily have touched him. His companion gave no sign, perhaps Lechmere's fingers playing about his throat warned him of the danger of anything of the kind. Mazaroff disappeared in the gloom, a door closed with a click, there was a muffled echo of retreating footsteps and then Lechmere's grim features relaxed into a smile. He jogged up his captive.
"Now we shall be able to get along," he said. "Will you be so good as to precede me, sir?"
"Do you know who I am?" the other man replied. "Because if you are not aware of my identity——"
"I am quite aware of your identity," Lechmere said coolly. "And I should do again what I am doing now if necessary. I daresay you regard the thing as a magnificent joke, but when you come to realise the enormous mischief that you have done, why——"
Lechmere shrugged his shoulders by way of completing his sentence. He pushed the other man along the corridor until he came to Maxgregor's rooms, where he hustled his prisoner inside. He stood winking and blinking there in the light, the very image of the king with his orders on his breast and his flame-coloured hair gleaming in the light. Shamefaced as he appeared, there was yet a kind of twinkle in his eyes.
"Behold your king," Lechmere said. "Behold the source of the trouble. Your majesty must find the heat very much in that wig. Let me remove it."
He coolly twitched the flame-coloured thatch away and disclosed a close crop of black hair. The queen threw up her hands with a gesture of amazement.
"Peretori," she cried. "Prince Peretori! So you are the cause of all the mischief. Will you be so good as to explain yourself?"