“What say you to this, Nell?” asked the King, the words choking in his throat.
“Sire,–I–I–” answered Nell, evasively. “There’s some mistake or knavery!”
“She hesitates,” interpolated the Duchess, eagerly.
“You change colour, wench,” cried Charles, his heart, indeed, again upon the rack. “Ho, without there! Search the house.”
An officer entered quickly to obey the mandate.
“Stay, Sire,” exclaimed Nell, raising herself to her full height, her hot, trembling lips compressed, her cheeks aflame. “My oath, I have not seen Adair’s face this night.”
Her words fell upon the assemblage like thunder from a June-day sky. The King’s face brightened. The Duchess’s countenance grew pale as death.
“Mon Dieu! Adair!” she gasped in startled accents to Lord Buckingham, attendant at her side. “Could it be he my servants saw? The packet! Fool! Why did I give it him?”
Buckingham trembled violently. He was even more startled than Portsmouth; for he had more to lose. England was his home and France was hers.
“The scales are turning against us,” he whispered. “Throw in this ring for safety. Nell’s gift to Adair; you understand.”