“An ominous garb,” said Bjelke, smiling curiously. “The garment of the sinner on his way to penitential doom.”
Armfelt cried out in a protest of mock horror, but Gustavus laughed cynically.
“Oh, I confess that it would be most apt. I had not thought of it.”
His fingers sought a pomatum box, and in doing so displaced a toilet-case of red morocco. An oblong paper package fell from the top of this and arrested the King's attention.
“Why, what is this?” He took it up—a letter bearing the superscription:
To His MAJESTY THE KING
SECRET AND IMPORTANT
“What is this, Francois?” The royal voice was suddenly sharp.
The valet glided forward, whilst Armfelt rose from the divan and, like Bjelke, attracted by the sudden change in the King's tone and manner, drew near his master.
“How comes this letter here?”
The valet's face expressed complete amazement. It must have been placed there in his absence an hour ago, after he had made all preparations for the royal toilette. It was certainly not there at the time, or he must have seen it.