“No, on my honour,” said Cyril, eagerly, relieved at being able to deny with perfect truth this direct accusation. “Drakovics is a Spartan sort of fellow, and I suppose he thinks that as soon as you are off with the old love you may as well be on with a new. It’s his own idea altogether.”
“I beg your pardon, old man,” said Caerleon. “Everything is so crooked in this wretched place that I was even beginning to suspect you. But I am glad you had nothing to do with it. Just telephone to Drakovics to come up at once, will you?”
“Why?” asked Cyril, standing before the tube, lest his brother should resent his hesitation and insist on using it himself.
“That he may explain to the King of Mœsia that he has made a mistake, of course.”
“But, Caerleon, you can’t do things in that way!” cried Cyril. “Think of the girl! Why, the news is public property by this time, all over Europe, and there isn’t a soul that won’t believe but that you have found out something against her that has made you change your mind.”
“Then I will disown Drakovics’s action, and say that he acted without my authority.”
“Then he will resign, and you will lose the only man who possesses the confidence of the people, and can support you to any purpose at this juncture. You can’t do it, Caerleon. Besides, that again is a nasty one for the girl. Won’t you see her? No one can tell what might happen then.”
“If I see her, I shall simply tell her the whole story,” said Caerleon, grimly. “She will have no wish to marry me after that.”
“Let me tell her about the matter for you,” suggested Cyril.
“No, thank you,” returned his brother. “I have a pretty fair idea of the way you would speak of it—as a youthful indiscretion, of which I was ashamed. And I am not ashamed. I should be the proudest man on earth if Nadia were to be crowned with me this day two months.”