bowed. She wore a white gown, and her hair was loosely gathered in a knot. She kissed her hand to me, crying:
"Bring the king up, Helga; I'll give him some coffee."
The countess, with a gay glance, led the way, and took me into Flavia's morning room. And, left alone, we greeted one another as lovers are wont. Then the princess laid two letters before me. One was from Black Michael—a most courteous request that she would honor him by spending a day at his castle of Zenda, as had been her custom once a year in the summer, when the place and its gardens were in the height of their great beauty. I threw the letter down in disgust, and Flavia laughed at me. Then, growing grave again, she pointed to the other sheet.
"I don't know who that comes from," she said. "Read it."
I knew in a moment. There was no signature at all this time, but the handwriting was the same as that which had told me of the snare in the summerhouse; it was Antoinette de Mauban's.
