“Your Excellency is over-tired, or you would not insult by such a suggestion a man who has always tried to serve you faithfully.”
“You are right, Paschics. Well, come into my office, and let us go through this solemn farce with becoming dignity.”
They had scarcely taken their seats when the King’s private secretary arrived to demand the delivery of the seals of office. Following him came the Chief of Police, with several subordinates.
“I am instructed to seal up your Excellency’s papers in your presence, and take them to my Bureau for examination,” he said. “Your Excellency is to be placed under arrest in your own house. You can obtain what you wish from without through the police, but you will not be allowed to communicate with any one outside.”
“Very good,” said Cyril. “What a blessing I have sent my message to Caerleon before this!” he added to himself. “What is the matter, Paschics?”
“Your Excellency,” in a quick whisper, as the attention of the police was distracted by their task, “if there is anything among the papers—any letters—which you would not desire to have seen, tell me at once, and I will destroy it before they take possession of them, whatever the risks.”
“No, Paschics, I never keep letters. You may be quite easy about that.”
“Your Excellency,” the secretary’s fingers were twitching as he stood beside Cyril, “will you endure this? They are treating you like a common criminal. Only give me the word, and I will strangle the Prefect there.”
“My good Paschics, keep quiet, and don’t make things worse. Why should not the police tumble my papers about, if they like? It doesn’t hurt us. I am really grateful to them for giving me something to think about.”
Understanding now the full extent of the disaster, Paschics was silent, but when the police had gone into another room, he crept out after them. In a moment he returned, his face beaming with delight.