"Yes, sire. It is addressed to"
Rischenheim paused.
"Well, my lord, to whom?"
"To a Mr. Rudolf Rassendyll."
Now Rudolf played his part well. He did not feign indifference, but allowed his voice to tremble with emotion as he stretched out his hand and said in a hoarse whisper:
"Give it me, give it me."
Rischenheim's eyes sparkled. His shot had told: the King's attention was his, the coats of the dogs were forgotten. Plainly he had stirred the suspicions and jealousy of the King.
"My cousin," he continued, "conceives it his duty to lay the letter before your Majesty. He obtained it"
"A curse on how he got it! Give it me."
Rischenheim unbuttoned his coat, then his waistcoat. The head of a revolver showed in a belt round his waist. He undid the flap of a pocket in the lining of his waistcoat, and began to draw out a sheet of paper.
But Rudolf, great as his powers of self-control were, was but human. When he saw the paper, he leant forward, half rising from his chair. As a result, his face came beyond the shadow of the curtain, and the full morning light beat on it. As Rischenheim took the paper out, he looked up. He saw the face that glared so eagerly at him; his eyes met Rassendyll's: a sudden suspi-
