She stopped short in front of him: "The King!" she exclaimed incredulously.
Bulstrode nodded in a matter-of-fact way as if stray kings on mid-country platforms were the common occurrence of his travelling experiences.
"He had evidently followed you that far, and if the plan formed to attach your carriage to the Dover express had been attempted, you would have been stopped by your husband himself. As it is you are simply going where you are expected to go—to Westboro' Castle."
This dénouement, putting a summary end to her tragic anger, left her no place for ecstatics. She sat down in front of Bulstrode and repeated, dazed:—
"The King! The King had followed me! He had been warned then, but by whom? You above all did not....?"
"Oh no!" He was glad to be honestly able to disclaim at least this disloyalty. "I had nothing to do with it. The King had come on with the man who had played your Majesty false all along, the man who is indeed more the King's friend than he is Carmen-Magda's."
And sitting there, bewildered and appealing before him, she heard him say: "I mean Lord Almouth Gresthaven."
She murmured some words in Poltavian, then besought: "Why, why do you play with me?" The tears started to her eyes.
"Lord Gresthaven," Bulstrode hurried now to his confession—"has plainly betrayed you. Either he failed to meet you as planned, or else he came too late and thought better of his connivance against your husband—at all events, both he and the King took the slow train."
"But you," she interrupted, staring at him—"You are not Lord Gresthaven?"