“I’ll be more plain. I will tell you what I know. It is this. Königsmark has an assignation with the Princess Sophia this very night at ten o’clock—and where do you suppose? In her Highness’s own apartments.” The Elector came to his feet with an oath. “That is not true!” he cried. “It cannot be!” “Then I’ll say no more,” quoth Jezebel, and snapped her thin lips. “Ah, but you shall. How do you know this?” “That I cannot tell you without betraying a confidence. Let it suffice you that I do know it. Consider now whether in banishing this profligate you have sufficiently avenged the honour of your son.” “My God, if I thought this were true....” He choked with rage, stood shaking a moment, then strode to the door, calling. “The truth is easily ascertained,” said Madame. “Conceal yourself in the Rittersaal, and await his coming forth. But you had best go attended, for it is a very reckless rogue, and he has been known aforetime to practice murder.” Whilst the Elector, acting upon this advice, was getting his men together, Königsmark was wasting precious moments in Sophia’s antechamber, whilst Mademoiselle de Knesebeck apprised her Highness of his visit. Sophia had already retired to bed, and the amazing announcement of the Count’s presence there startled her into a fear of untoward happenings. She was overwhelmed, too, by the rashness of this step of his, coming after the events of yesterday. If it should be known that he had visited her thus, terrible consequences might ensue. She rose, and with Mademoiselle de Knesebeck’s aid made ready to receive him. Yet for all that she made haste, the precious irreclaimable moments sped. She came to him at last, Mademoiselle de Knesebeck following, for propriety’s sake. “What is it?” she asked him breathlessly. “What brings you here at such an hour?” “What brings me?” quoth he, surprised at that reception. “Why, your commands—your letter.” “My letter? What letter?” A sense of doom, of being trapped, suddenly awoke in him. He plucked forth the treacherous note, and proffered it. “Why, what does this mean?” She swept a white hand over her eyes and brows, as if to brush away some thing that obscured her vision. “That is not mine. I never wrote it. How could you dream I should be imprudent as to bid you hither, and at such an hour How could you dream it?” “You are right,” said he, and laughed, perhaps to ease her alarm, perhaps in sheer bitter mirth. “It will be, no doubt, the work of our friend, Madame von Platen. I had best begone. For the rest, my travelling chaise will wait from noon until sunset to-morrow by the Markt Kirck in Hanover, and I shall wait within it. I shall hope to conduct you safely to Wolfenbuttel.” “I will come, I will come. But go now—oh, go!” He looked very deeply into her eyes—a valedictory glance against the worst befalling him. Then he took her hand, bowed over it and kissed it, and so departed.