“Quite enough,” returned Cyril genially. “Ask M. Paschics to step this way, and to bring with him the household book. The change and the reason for it must be entered.”
The man departed, and Cyril walked to the window.
“There’s something fishy about the business,” he said; “but the Queen has made it next to impossible to clear it up. I am pretty sure I remember that there was something suspicious about this man Peter. Come in, Paschics.”
M. Paschics, who entered in response to the invitation, was ostensibly Cyril’s most confidential clerk, and there were only a few who knew that he was in reality a member of the Secret Police, specially detailed to watch over the royal household. The book which he brought with him was to all appearance merely a record of the comings, goings, and conduct of the domestics attached to the Court; but by means of a series of private marks, the meaning of which was known only to himself and Cyril, it contained also an account of their political opinions and personal histories.
“You have heard that Peter Sergeivics is at present taking his brother’s place,” said Cyril. “Turn up his name, and let me see what there is against him.”
“He is a member of the Golden Eagle Society for the study of Scythian literature, your Excellency, and has been heard on several occasions to express approval of the sentiments uttered on St Gabriel’s day by his Beatitude the Metropolitan.”
“I knew there was something wrong. Those literary societies are invariably political clubs in disguise. Well, Paschics, this man is to be watched. Notice his resorts and his associates, and let me know the result of your shadowing.”
“Yes, your Excellency. He is not on duty this afternoon and evening, and I hear that he is going into the town. As a stranger, he wishes to see what the place is like.”
“And very natural too. If he finds any friends here, it is as well that we should know it. That is all for the present.”
Paschics retired, and Cyril returned to his accounts. Later in the day he was witness of a curious little incident which he did not at the time connect with Peter Sergeivics and his suspicious record, but which proved afterwards to have a bearing upon it. Standing at a window which overlooked the approach, Cyril saw, to his astonishment, the O’Malachy advancing to the door of the Villa. His clothes were faultless, his moustache waxed; there was something jaunty about his very limp. A stranger would have taken him for a prince travelling incognito, or at the least for an exquisite of the Pannonian Court; and Cyril, who knew him only too well, wondered what on earth he was up to now. The door of the room was slightly ajar, and he heard the familiar voice, with its rich rolling intonation, asking leave to see over the Villa. The obvious answer was returned that sightseers were not admitted at present, to which the O’Malachy appeared to reply by producing the local guidebook, which mentioned that visitors were allowed to go through the State apartments on two days in the week. On being assured, however, that this did not apply to the times at which the Court was in residence, he perceived his error, and retired, with profuse apologies, to view the Villa from the gardens, admission to which was practically unrestricted.