“Was the Marquis du Trémigon there?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“And you would believe a servant’s word before mine?” said du Trémigon furiously.
“We shall see. Call Monsieur Burnham,” she said to the attendant.
I did not wait to be called. I was through the door in an instant. Du Trémigon started with additional surprise when he saw me.
“What do you know of this charge of the Marquis du Trémigon?” asked the Queen after I had saluted her.
“Your Majesty, I know that the Marquis du Trémigon was in his hôtel between the hours of eight in the evening and one in the morning. By no possibility could he have been in the apartment of Mademoiselle de Villars. Furthermore, the man Babin was in his employ yesterday.”
“You hound!” cried du Trémigon, and then I stepped close to him. He shrank back. I stepped nearer. The Queen might have interfered, but I rather think she enjoyed it.
“You know,” I said, frowning at him, “that you were not in the apartments of the Comtesse de Villars on that evening or any other evening.” He opened his mouth as if to speak. “Not a word or I’ll kill you where you stand!”
“Your Majesty,” he cried, dexterously avoiding me, “will you condemn me on the words of a lackey and a criminal?”