“Is there any necessity for that?” Von Tressen observed. “If we are sure the Prince is there a prisoner, why not inform the Chancellor and let the authorities proceed against Zarka?”
“No, no; it would be too late,” D’Alquen exclaimed.
“Yes; our friend is right,” Galabin said. “We should run the risk of defeating our own ends. For before the Government could come to the rescue, the Prince would be dead and buried a hundred feet down in the rock. No; we must not force Zarka’s hand, especially as he has his friends over the mountains to look to. And, after all, we have no certain proof as yet that the man in the mask is Prince Roel.”
“No; no proof,” D’Alquen said feverishly; “yet we may be certain of it. All the actors in the wretched affair are here in the forest: Count Zarka, the gaoler and prospective assassin, my kinsman, the poor victim, and the lady of the farm, the decoy.”
Galabin glanced anxiously at Von Tressen, who started as though he had been struck.
“Decoy?” he demanded hoarsely. “What do you mean?”
D’Alquen turned to him with a fierce excited vent of repressed knowledge.
“I mean nothing less than I say. This woman—lady, if you will—who is staying so unaccountably, so mysteriously at the old farm, is nothing less, or nothing more, than a creature of Zarka’s, whom he has employed to delude my poor cousin and betray him to his death.”
“It is impossible; it is a lie!” the Lieutenant cried hotly.
Galabin made a restraining gesture. “Let us hear what proof Herr D’Alquen has of his assertion,” he said quietly.