“Hush, Princess!” he said, his heart full of sympathy for her in her wild distress. “You have acted wrongly, it is true—very, very wrongly. Yet I am still your friend. I will see you safely out of this impasse—if you will only allow me. What is that document you have abstracted from the safe?”
She made no response, but placing her hand within her breast she very slowly drew it out and handed it to him.
Without opening the envelope he placed it in his pocket. Then taking her hand, he looked long and earnestly into her face and said:
“You had better return to the Palace at once, Lola. You are not well. Leave me to settle matters with Ghelardi.”
“But he will tell the King!” she gasped, wringing her hands in despair. “What can I say—how shall I explain?”
“Leave all to me,” he urged. “But before you go, tell me one thing. Why is Henri Pujalet in Rome?”
“No, no!” she shrieked, “do not mention his name. I—ah! no—do not torture me, I beg of you!” she went on wildly. “Hate me—denounce me as a spy, if you will—revile my memory if you wish—but do not taunt me with the name of that man.”
“I will see you to your carriage. Come,” he urged simply.
She struggled to calm herself, placing her gloved hand upon her beating heart, while the Englishman laid his hand tenderly upon her shoulder in deepest sympathy.
At first he had been horrified at discovering the bitter, amazing truth. But horror had now been succeeded by poignant regret and a determination to suppress, if possible, what must be, if divulged by Ghelardi, as no doubt it would—a most terrible national scandal.