“It is terrible,” she managed to say, “and I will have been the cause of it.”
He came closer and took her by the hand, speaking distinctly.
“And do you regret that it is Rizzio instead of me?”
“No, no,” she stammered. Her accents of horror were genuine, but it seemed more horrible that she should be making a farce of her genuine emotions. Yet Cyril’s eyes impelled her. “It is terrible. I can’t believe——”
“General von Stromberg is not a man to make idle threats. I am glad that I am not in Rizzio’s shoes.”
She saw him pause, his mouth open, gazing upward at the lithograph of Emperor William. To Doris the picture merely typified power, ambition, intolerance of any ideals but those of military glory. But it was not at the portrait that Cyril was looking. He was examining the frame, which was swung a little to one side, revealing a patch of unfaded wallpaper. He looked down into the fireplace thoughtfully and while the girl wondered what he was going to do next, he whirled suddenly and moved quickly toward the door into the hall, which he opened swiftly straight into the face of Captain Wentz, who managed to step back only in time to avoid it.
But the officer was equal to the occasion.
“I was seeking General von Stromberg,” he said coolly.
“He isn’t here,” Doris heard Cyril say quietly. And then, “I wanted a glass of water. Fräulein Mather is feeling ill.”
“Ah! I will have it brought at once.” As he disappeared in the passage to the kitchen, Cyril closed the door and came in three strides to the fireplace, reached up and raised the picture from the wall, peering under it, and touched the surface of the wallpaper with the tips of his fingers. Then with great care he put the picture back in its place and bent over Doris close to her ear, whispering: “They suspect. Everything we have said has been overheard. A microphone! I knew it was here somewhere.”