CHAPTER 6

The Secret of a Cellar


We were in the King's dressing-room--Fritz von Tarlenheim, Sapt, and I.
I flung myself exhausted into an armchair. Sapt lit his pipe. He uttered
no congratulations on the marvellous success of our wild risk, but his
whole bearing was eloquent of satisfaction. The triumph, aided perhaps
by good wine, had made a new man of Fritz.

"What a day for you to remember!" he cried. "Gad, I'd like to be King
for twelve hours myself! But, Rassendyll, you mustn't throw your heart
too much into the part. I don't wonder Black Michael looked blacker than
ever--you and the princess had so much to say to one another."

"How beautiful she is!" I exclaimed.

"Never mind the woman," growled Sapt. "Are you ready to start?"

"Yes," said I, with a sigh.

It was five o'clock, and at twelve I should be no more than Rudolf
Rassendyll. I remarked on it in a joking tone.

"You'll be lucky," observed Sapt grimly, "if you're not the late Rudolf