“I am at a loss to understand your Excellency,” said the Queen angrily, darting a lightning glance of wrath at Cyril.
“I allude to the letter which your Majesty has thought fit to address to the Emperor of Scythia without consulting your advisers.”
“And may I ask how long my advisers have considered it a part of their duty to supervise my private correspondence?”
“A correspondence which appears in the public prints is scarcely to be called private, madame.”
“In the papers? I fear that your Excellency has been imposed upon by some forgery. The letter which I drew up yesterday and dictated to Herr Christophle has never left my possession.”
“I am inexpressibly relieved to hear it, madame.”
“But you do not believe me? Must I show you the letter itself?” And with one of her impulsive movements, she sprang up and crossed the room to an escritoire. Unlocking a drawer, she pressed a spring and drew out a smaller drawer, in which, with a sudden change of countenance, she began to search anxiously.
“It is gone!” she said, looking round with a frightened face. “Christophle and my mother thought it would be well to send it last night, but I said I would sleep over it before despatching it.”
“Had the secretary Christophle access to your Majesty’s escritoire?” inquired M. Drakovics drily; for it had not escaped either Cyril or himself that the Princess of Weldart had sat up suddenly, as though about to speak, when the Queen had first risen from her chair, but had relapsed again immediately into an ostentatious indifference to all that was going on.
“No, certainly not. What should he want with the letter? Besides, the key is on my watch-chain.”