and arrested the King's attention.

"Why, what is this?" He took it up--a letter bearing the superscription:

To His MAJESTY THE KING
SECRET AND IMPORTANT

"What is this, Francois?" The royal voice was suddenly sharp.

The valet glided forward, whilst Armfelt rose from the divan and, like
Bjelke, attracted by the sudden change in the King's tone and manner,
drew near his master.

"How comes this letter here?"

The valet's face expressed complete amazement. It must have been placed
there in his absence an hour ago, after he had made all preparations for
the royal toilette. It was certainly not there at the time, or he must
have seen it.

With impatient fingers Gustavus snapped the seal and unfolded the
letter. Awhile he stood reading, very still, his brows knit.

Then, with a contemptuous "Poof!" he handed it to his secretary.

At a glance Bjelke recognized the hand for that of Colonel Lillehorn,
one of the conspirators, whose courage had evidently failed him in the
eleventh hour. He read:

SIRE,--Deign to heed the warning of one who, not being in your service,
nor solicitous of your favours, flatters not your crimes, and yet
desires to avert the danger threatening you. There is a plot to
assassinate you which would by now have been executed but for the
countermanding of the ball at the opera last week. What was not done
then will certainly be done to-night if you afford the opportunity.
Remain at home and avoid balls and public gatherings for the rest of the
year; thus the fanaticism which aims at your life will evaporate.

"Do you know the writing?" Gustavus asked.

Bjelke shrugged. "The hand will be disguised, no doubt," he evaded.

"But you will heed the warning, Sire?" exclaimed, Armfelt, who had read
over the secretary's shoulder, and whose face had paled in reading.

Gustavus laughed contemptuously. "Faith, if I were to heed every
scaremonger, I should get but little amusement out of life."

Yet he was angry, as his shifting colour showed. The disrespectful tone
of the anonymous communication moved him more deeply than its actual
message. He toyed a moment with a hair-ribbon, his nether lip thrust out
in thought. At last he rapped out an oath of vexation, and proffered the
ribbon to his valet.

"My hair, Francois," said he, "and then we will be going."

"Going!"

It was an ejaculation of horror from Armfelt, whose face was now as
white as the ivory-coloured suit he wore.

"What el