. This chamberlain bowed
respectfully to the Baron.

"His Majesty?" said Bjelke.

"He is dressing. Shall I announce Your Excellency?"

"Pray do."

The chamberlain vanished, and Bjelke was left alone. Waiting, he stood
there, idly fingering the scented note he had received from the page.
As he turned it in his fingers the superscription came uppermost, and
he turned it no more. His eyes lost their absorbed look, their glance
quickened into attention, a frown shaped itself between them like a
scar; his breathing, suspended a moment, was renewed with a gasp. He
stepped aside to a table bearing a score of candles clustered in a
massive silver branch, and held the note so that the light fell full
upon the writing.

Standing thus, he passed a hand over his eyes and stared again, two
hectic spots burning now in his white cheeks. Abruptly, disregarding
the superscription, his trembling fingers snapped the blank seal and
unfolded the letter addressed to his royal master. He was still reading
when the chamberlain returned to announce that the King was pleased to
see the Baron at once. He did not seem to hear the announcement. His
attention was all upon the letter, his lips drawn back from his teeth in
a grin, and beads of perspiration glistening upon his brow.

"His Majesty--" the chamberlain was beginning to repeat, when he broke
off suddenly. "Your Excellency is ill?"

"Ill?"

Bjelke stared at him with glassy eyes. He crumpled the letter in his
hand and stuffed one and the other into the pocket of his black satin
coat. He attempted to laugh to reassure the startled chamberlain, and
achieved a ghastly grimace.

"I must not keep His Majesty waiting," he said thickly, and stumbled
on, leaving in the chamberlain's mind a suspicion that His Majesty's
secretary was not quite sober.

But Bjelke so far conquered his emotion that he was almost his usual
imperturbable self when he reached the royal dressing-room; indeed, he
no longer displayed even the agitation that had possessed him when first
he entered the palace.

Gustavus, a slight, handsome man of a good height, was standing before
a cheval-glass when Bjelke came in. Francois, the priceless valet
His Majesty had brought back from his last pleasure-seeking visit
to pre-revolutionary Paris some five years ago, was standing back
judicially to consider the domino he had just placed upon the royal
shoulders. Baron Armfelt whom the conspirators accused of wielding the
mo