"Well, she was so fascinatin', I can't say,
Sir Charles--the most lovely lady I ever did see at times, Sir Charles."
"Humph," said Paul's father, and then relapsed into silence.
"She'd a beast of a husband; he might have been a King, but he was no
gentleman," Tompson ventured to add presently, fearing the "Humph" perhaps
meant disapprobation of this splendid Queen. "Her servants were close, and
did not speak good English, so I could not get much out of them, but the
man Vasili, who came the last days, did say in a funny lingo, which I had
to guess at, as how he expected he should have to kill him some time.
Vasili had a scar on his face as long as your finger that he'd got
defending the Queen from her husband's brutality, when he was the worse for
drink, only last year. And Mr. Verdayne is so handsome. It is no wonder,
Sir Charles--"
"That will do, Tompson," said Sir Charles, and he frowned.
The fatal letter, carefully sealed up in a new envelope, and the leather
case were in his despatch-box. Tompson had handed them to him on his
arrival. And one day when Paul appeared well enough to be lifted into a
long chair on the side loggia, his father thought fit to give them to him.
Paul's apathy seemed paralysing. The days had passed, since the little
Italian doctor had pronounced him out of danger, in one unending languid
quietude.
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