“You and Moore are a wonderful pair,” he said. “You think for me more than I think for myself.”
A smile touched Bernheim’s stern mouth and impassive face.
“We need to, Your Highness,” he answered. “You don’t think at all; you leave it to Lotzen.” He pushed the package a little nearer—“You will wear it, my lord?”
Armand took it, and, cutting the wrapper, shook out the wonderful steel vest, that had saved his life at the Vierle Masque when, from across the hedge, the assassin’s dagger had sought his heart. It was, truly, a marvellous bit of craftsmanship; pliable as silk and scarcely more bulky, the tiny steel links so cunningly joined they had the appearance of dark gray cloth. He bent and twisted it in admiring contemplation. Verily, those armorers of old Milan understood their art—never could modern hand have forged and knit so perfect a garment. He found the mark on the back, where the bravo’s weapon struck—only a scratch, so faint it was almost indistinguishable, yet the blow had sent him plunging on his face.
“It served you well that night,” said Bernheim.
The Archduke smiled. “And as its owner always does;” he smiled—and the old Aide bowed—“but there is no Masque to-night.”
“Every night, now, is a Masque for Lotzen—and every day, too.”
“Heaven, man! you wouldn’t have me wear this constantly?”
“No—not in bed;” then seriously—“but at all other times, sir.”
Armand pushed the vest back on the desk and frowned.