“No,” said he, “I don’t; I lost the Book before I had a chance to open it. All I know is what that blotter tells. Damn it, why couldn’t it have had the middle of the decree instead of both ends!” and in marvellously assumed indignation he seized the soft sheet, and tore it into tiny bits. He had no mind that even she should have the chance to copy it, and delve into all that the words and blurred lines might imply.
“May I know where the Book is, dear?” she said, after a pause; “may be I could help you.”
An hour ago he would have balked at this question; but now her interests had become so bound up with his that he could trust her.
“Know, little one? of course you may know,” he said instantly; “I shall be glad for a confidant. The Book is exactly where it belongs:—in the box, and it is in the vault of the King’s library at the Summer Palace.”
She laughed merrily.
“Ferdinand, dear Ferdinand!” she cried, “I’m ashamed of you—to tell me such a clumsy lie.”
“It isn’t a lie—that’s the pity.”
“Then why all this bother as to the Succession, and search for the Book?” she asked incredulously.
“Because, my dear, I’m the only one who knows it’s there—listen, and I’ll tell you how it happened.”
At last! at last! she was to know—and she nestled close to him and waited. Truly, this was her day. And he told all, not even omitting the killing of the valet.