‘This is my own room. The Queen’s boudoir is reached through that
door,’ she explained, pointing to it. ‘Wait here, and excuse me if I
take the precaution of locking you in.’
‘Stay,’ I said sharply. ‘In situations like this I trust no one. Give
me the key, and I will lock myself in, and open to your knock.’
The servant made no objection, and a signal was arranged between us;
after which she stole away, leaving me there in the gathering dusk,
with the fate of a kingdom trembling in the balance.
Of my feelings during the next half hour it would be useless to
speak. Murder, red-armed and tiger-eyed, was whetting its knife
against the bosom of the woman whom I would gladly have died to save.
And I could do nothing but stand there and gaze furtively through the
window for the first sign of the approaching cyclone.
[Illustration: “I took out my loaded revolver, cocked it and advanced
to the threshold.”]
At the end of thirty eternal minutes the expected knock came at the
outer door. I took out my loaded revolver, cocked it, and advanced
to the threshold.
‘Who is there?’
‘The Queen’s friend,’ came the expected answer.
I unlocked the door, opened it just widely enough to admit the
waiting-maid, and promptly shut and locked it again.
‘The Queen knows you are here, but she dares not leave the table
for another half hour. At the end of that time she will be in her
boudoir, and will admit us.’