“A letter? Why, have you also been dabbling in conspiracy, Drakovics?”
The Premier’s sallow face grew a shade paler. “I am not joking,” he said. “The letter is a perfectly innocent one, addressed to the commandant of Tatarjé, in reply to a request about some office for his brother; but I have heard rumours—indeed, with such a tissue of falsehoods as they have been weaving, would they be likely to let slip such an opportunity of dragging my name into the matter?”
“But you would get it back in any case when the rebels are tried, if it had not been destroyed.”
“Ah, but how can I be sure that it will not fall into unfriendly hands? The rebels may have made alterations in the original, or even cut out my signature and attached it to a forgery. To leave it to be produced at the trial would be to subject myself to endless suspicion and annoyance. My honour is at stake, Count, and must be vindicated. As to the letter itself, you shall see it when I have it back. But where are you going now?”
“To the Palace, to find one of the ladies and give her a list which Fräulein von Staubach intrusted to me of things I am to take back for the Queen. The castle is rather a primitive place in the way of toilet arrangements, I fancy. By the bye, we must get a carriage up there somehow, for her Majesty is quite unfit to ride as far as the railway. I suppose we must set the escort to push behind in the places where there is no road at all, and harness their horses on in front. You will see that the escort is detailed to start to-morrow? I will look after the other things.”
“But I wonder,” he said to himself, as he quitted the Premier’s presence, “what the truth is about that letter? There is something fishy, I am sure. Drakovics has given himself away in his eagerness to get it back, not to mention his engaging candour in telling me about it at all. What is it? It would give me the very handle I want against him if I could find out.”
CHAPTER XVII.
“THE MAN WHOM THE QUEEN DELIGHTETH TO HONOUR.”
Whatever M. Drakovics’s misgivings may have been with respect to the letter of which the rebels had obtained possession, the measures which he took to recover it were crowned with complete success, and he appeared in Cyril’s office triumphant, three days after his colleague had returned a second time to Bellaviste, in attendance on the Queen and the little King.
“Everything has fallen out exactly as I prophesied to you, Count,” he cried, “with the exception of one or two unfortunate accidents, such as one could not hope to provide against. You saw, of course, yesterday’s telegram from Constantinovics announcing that he and the royal forces had occupied Tatarjé with very little opposition? Well, here is a long letter from my nephew Vassili, giving details, and, best of all, enclosing that letter of mine which caused me such anxiety. I promised to show it to you; here it is.”
Cyril glanced at the document with languid interest. It was an ordinary business letter in the Premier’s writing, addressed to the commandant of Tatarjé, and promising to meet his wishes with regard to the subject upon which they had been in correspondence. But for the fact of its having been written by M. Drakovics’s own hand, there was nothing remarkable about it; and except for the danger of its being tampered with, it appeared quite inadequate to account for the writer’s anxiety to recover it. Cyril returned it quickly.