“Going!”
It was an ejaculation of horror from Armfelt, whose face was now as white as the ivory-coloured suit he wore.
“What else? Am I to be intimidated out of my pleasures?” Yet that his heart was less stout than his words his very next question showed. “Apropos, Bjelke, what was the reason why you countermanded the ball last week?”
“The councillors from Gefle claimed Your Majesty's immediate attention,” Bjelke reminded him.
“So you said at the time. But the business seemed none so urgent when we came to it. There was no other reason in your mind—no suspicion?”
His keen, dark blue eyes were fixed upon the pale masklike face of the secretary.
That grave, almost stern countenance relaxed into a smile.
“I suspected no more than I suspect now,” was his easy equivocation. “And all that I suspect now is that some petty enemy is attempting to scare Your Majesty.”
“To scare me?” Gustavus flushed to the temples. “Am I a man to be scared?”
“Ah, but consider, Sire, and you, Bjelke,” Armfelt was bleating. “This may be a friendly warning. In all humility, Sire, let me suggest that you incur no risk; that you countermand the masquerade.”