As is usually the case when a man retires before his accustomed hour, the Archduke’s slumber was capricious and broken, finally ending in complete wakefulness and an intense mental activity that defied sleep. At length he switched on the reading lamp beside his bed and looked at his watch. It was only three o’clock. With an exclamation of disgust he got up and dressed, and went down to the library. The draft of Lotzen Castle was not as distinct in his mind as it should be; he would have another careful look at it and then, alone on the ramparts, with plenty of room to walk and think, he would work out the plan of campaign for the morrow.
He had put the plan and Jessac’s keys together in the desk, the top drawer on the right.—They were not there—nor in the next one—nor the next—nor the next—they were not in any of them. He searched again, and carefully ... they were gone. He went to the far corner where Major Meux had got the portfolio; its place was empty. He frowned in puzzled irritation; who would have presumed to meddle with them? Moore, possibly, to study the draft, but he would not have taken the keys; they would be wanted only when——
“God! might it be!” he cried aloud, “might it be!”
His mind flashed back through the day: Dehra’s solicitude that he should not go to-night—borrow Bernheim—early to bed—a dozen other trifles now most indicative. With a curse at his stupidity, he ran to Moore’s quarters—empty—the bed untouched; then to Bernheim’s—the same there; to De Coursey’s—to Marsov’s—both the same. He burst unannounced into the ante-chamber of the Princess’ apartments, bringing a shriek from each of the sleepy maids.
“Your mistress—is she here?” he demanded.
“Her Highness retired hours ago, sir,” one of them replied tremblingly, fright still upon her.
“But is she there now?—Send Marie here instantly.”
The French girl came, wrapped in a long chamber robe.
“Is your mistress asleep?” he asked.
“Yes, Monsieur le Prince, hours ago.”