“He has been absent for some time,” he replied,—then after a pause—“But what are you here for, Teresa? This is not your department!” and he took her hand kindly, noticing with some concern that there were tears in her large dark eyes;—“Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing! That is,—nothing that I have any right to imagine—or to guess. But—” and here she seemed a little confused—“I am commanded by the Queen to summon you to her presence if,—if the King has not returned!”
He rose at once, looking perplexed. Teresa watched him anxiously, and the expression of his face did not tend to reassure her.
“Roger,” she began timidly—“Would you not tell me,—might I not know something of this mystery? Might I not be trusted?”
His languid eyes flashed with a sudden tenderness, as from his great and stately height he looked down upon her pretty shrinking figure.
“Poor little Teresa!” he murmured playfully; “What is the matter? What mystery are you talking about?”
“You know—you must know!” answered Teresa, clasping her hands with a gesture of entreaty; “There is something wrong, I am sure! Why is the King so often absent—when all the household suppose him to be with the Queen?—or in his private library there?” and she pointed to the curtained-off Royal sanctum beyond.
“Why does the Queen herself give it out that he is with her, when he is not? Why does he enter the Queen’s corridor sometimes quite late at night by the private battlement-stair? Does it not seem very strange? And since he was so nearly assassinated, his absences have been more frequent than ever!”
Sir Roger pulled his long fair moustache meditatively between his fingers.
“When you were a little girl, Teresa, you must have been told the story of Blue-beard;” he said; “Now take my advice!—and do not try to open forbidden doors with your tiny golden key of curiosity!”