He spread out on the bed copies of that morning’s issues of the three daily newspapers published in Bellaviste, in each of which Cyril, to his utter horror, saw the fateful letter facing him in all the boldness and clearness of the largest print.
“The woman must be mad!” he said, scarcely able to believe his eyes as he turned mechanically from one reproduction of the “Letter addressed by her Majesty the Queen-Regent to the Emperor of Scythia” to another. M. Drakovics sat regarding him in stony silence, and, after a moment’s stupefaction he pulled himself together.
“Have you discovered how the letter got to the newspaper-offices?”
“Yes; the secretary took them each a copy.”
“Ah! a copy signed by the Queen?”
“No; merely one in his own writing.”
“Good; then we may conclude that he was not authorised to do so.”
“Probably not, since he sold the letter to the editor for a considerable sum in each case.”
“Better and better! I was almost afraid to hope for such a thing. And what measures have you taken with regard to the papers?”
“Naturally I have seized all the copies printed, broken up the plates, and placed every one employed in the offices under arrest.”