“It is a fine mess,” he said, at length; “Spencer mixes it so abominably. What really brought her to Dornlitz?—how long has she been here?—did the Duke strike her—if there is a plot back of it, why should she have been selected to do the open work with you, of all people?—why, if Lotzen have the Book, doesn’t he destroy it?—why does he want you to see it in his very hands?—why, if he haven’t the Book, does he want to convince you that he has?—... If it’s a plot, then its object was either the one you suggest: to tempt you to violent measures against him to recover the Book, and so to discredit you with the Nobles when it’s not found; or—and this may be the more likely—to inveigle you into a death trap by using the Book as a lure.”
“Either of which,” observed the Archduke, “would explain his preservation of the Book.”
“Or sentiment,” Courtney laughed. “Her Highness thinks the Duke would never destroy the Laws of his House.”
“I fancy she wouldn’t be quite so strong on that now,” Armand observed. “I wish you had seen her last night; she was magnificent, simply magnificent.—Richard, she is the Dalberg of us all!—it’s she, not I, nor Lotzen, who ought to wear the Sapphire Crown.”
Courtney nodded in hearty acquiescence.
“And as she may not, it is for you,” he said, gravely, “to make her a Queen by wearing it yourself—and, as I believe I’ve admonished once or twice heretofore, to do that you must keep alive—dead Archdukes are good only to bury.”
“I’m very much alive,” the other laughed, “more alive than I’ve been since I shed cadet gray.”
“The Lord knows it is not from lack of effort on your part to get killed; you’ve tempted death in every dare-deviltry you could find—and this De Saure house affair is the limit—though last night was about as idiotic. The Princess has more discretion in an eye-lash than you have in your whole head—but for her, you would be surrounded now by tapers and incense—what fresh atrocity against common prudence will you perpetrate next, I wonder!”
The Archduke pushed the decanter across.
“Take another drink, old man,” he grinned, “you must be dry, with such a warm bunch of ideas jostling one another for exit—I’ll promise to be as discreet hereafter as a debutante. I admit the De Saure business appears foolish now, but then, at that hour of night, in darkness, rain and storm, would you, or any other man, have denied a woman’s call for help? I couldn’t.”