“Where is Count Mortimer, Dietrich? I want to speak to him.” Philippa lowered her voice involuntarily.
“At work, gracious one. He must not be disturbed.”
“You know he never meant you were to keep me out. Let me pass, please.”
“Alas, gracious one! I have his Excellency’s orders to admit no one.”
“Dietrich!” Ernestine threw back her hood, and the flash of her diamonds dazzled the valet’s astonished eyes; “you must let me through. It is a matter of life and death for your master.”
“Pardon, Majesty, I dare not. I have my orders.”
Ernestine clasped her hands wildly. Philippa drew her aside.
“Slip round by the verandah while I distract Dietrich’s attention here,” she whispered hurriedly, and pushing past the servant, almost succeeded in gaining the door. While he sprang forward to stop her, the Queen slipped away and ran round to the window. It was open. Cyril was standing with his back to her, looking narrowly into something which he was holding up close to his eye.
“Cyril!” she shrieked, bursting into the room. He started violently, but as he turned to her he thrust what he was holding under a piece of paper lying on the table.
“Ernestine! how you startled me! You here—at this hour? What is the matter?”