"To the letter," Lechmere said. "The king is dead, he must have been killed on the spot. I compliment you sincerely on the manner in which you contrived to keep this thing a secret. So long as the foe are in ignorance of the full measure of their success we have a chance. And I have made arrangements for the king to be conveyed to England secretly, Mazaroff is still hanging about here on the off chance of picking something up."
"Which he will not do. But what has become of our new ally, Peretori?"
"That I can't say," Lechmere replied. "Though I have a pretty shrewd idea. But it is useless to speak of that just now. What does the doctor say is the matter with you?"
"Shock, and yet I feel quite well at times. I can't keep my eyes open. I have the strange sensation of being drugged. I am so thirsty that I have to have a big jug of lemonade always by my side as you see. I am as tired as a dog again now."
And Maxwell closed his eyes. There was the sound of a step outside the cottage and the door opened very cautiously. With a sudden instinct Lechmere passed at the back of the sheets into the glow beyond just in time to avoid Mazaroff, who was the newcomer. Holding the sheet slightly back, Lechmere could see exactly what was taking place. He saw Maxwell lying as if in a heavy sleep, he saw the sinister smile that came over Mazaroff's face. The longer the protectors of the absent king lay there helpless so much the better for Mazaroff and his party. The Russian took a little bottle from his pocket and proceeded to drop a few spots from it into Maxwell's lemonade. With the same sinister smile on his face he crept away in the direction of the door. Was he carrying on the same game with Alexis, Lechmere wondered, or was some confidante doing the work?
Lechmere looked grim rather than angry, as he followed the Russian into the open air. He was going to see if the experiment was destined to be repeated on Alexis. It would be the last time, Lechmere told himself, for he had that morning put a spoke in Mazaroff's wheel which ought to stop the coach at any moment. Near the little village hotel to which the Russian made his way two official looking men were standing, a blue paper in the hand of one of them. One of them stepped up and bowed profoundly.
"Prince Mazaroff," he said. "Surely I have the honour. Ah, I thought so. You will consider yourself my prisoner in the interests of the Criminal Department of Paris. It is the warrant that I hold in my hand. You will have to come with me to Paris."
Mazaroff swore and threatened. He would like to know something of the charge. As the charge was read over his bluster and threats subdued to a little cry of dismay.
"It is a case of mistaken identity," he said. "Where are you going to take me? To Paris? It is very unfortunate, but circumstances are too strong for me, and I yield."