orable, and devoted wife and mother never lived. To question her word, and her signature, indeed, poor dead lady!”
“That is all very well. Agaphia,” replied Nicolas, “but did you happen to observe any person enter my writing apartment this forenoon?”
“A woman went through here,” observed the guard.
“Give me her description,” said Nicolas.
“Dressed in black, much stooped, or seeming to be so; about fifty years of age,and carrying, I noticed, a small golden key from a silver string around her neck. The key shook out from her dress as she hurried away.”
“Nicolas, dear,” said Agaphia solemnly, “never you give in. This is a conspiracy.” Nicolas seemed depressed.
“There, my dear,” said Agaphia, putting her hands to his face and kissing him, “there, you have asked for that; now take heart; and as sure as one woman’s wit can match another woman’s, we will discover the thief.”
“Do you know such a woman?” asked Nicolas in great confusion.
“Whether I know such a woman or not, makes no difference now,” answered Agaphia. “Be true to my dead mistress, poor dear; and as I once heard a strange man say, ‘A little wit is more than a match—’” but here a summons from the council called Nicolas and his guard before that body.
“You are committed to prison during the king’s pleasure,” exclaimed Duke Nicolas.
