“Oh yes, better now—and worse, for I am not certain but what this rough dealing with that boy is not part of another dream.”
“That is no dream, sir,” said Leoni meaningly; “but be silent and let me guide. We are on our way to make our escape.”
“Escape!” whispered back the King excitedly. “Then—then—oh, it’s coming back quite clearly. You have tried and failed?”
“Hist! Silence, Comte!” whispered Leoni, in a commanding tone, as he turned upon the speaker, but without taking his hand from Carrbroke’s lips. “Our task is nearly at an end, sir, and I will answer to you later on.—Now, Saint Simon, lay the boy quickly on that couch.”
“Have you killed him?” whispered Francis.
“No, sir; only plunged him into a deep sleep.—That’s right, Saint Simon.” And then in a mocking tone, “I am afraid that the faithful sentinel will be in trouble when they find him here asleep. I didn’t think to find him here. Now, quick, before we are interrupted again.” And he moved a few steps down the gallery, passing his hand along the hangings which veiled the panelled wall. “Somewhere here,” he muttered; “somewhere here. I seem to know the place so well.”
“Leoni,” growled the King, “this night will end in our disgrace, and if it does—”
“Hist, sir! there is a way out here,” whispered Leoni. “You hinder and confuse me, and at a time like this, when everything points to success, you—ah, here it is!” For his hand had at last come in contact with the boss, which he turned quickly, pressed hard, making the concealed door swing back, and then stooped in the gloom to raise the arras. “Now, sir; through here—quick!”
“What!” said Francis sharply. “Go through there into what may be a trap?”
Leoni made no reply, but turned to Saint Simon.