I had listened to the story, bound as though by a spell. Halfway
through, James's hand had crept to my arm and rested there; when
Herbert finished I heard the little man licking his lips, again
and again slapping his tongue against them. Then I looked at
Sapt. He was as pale as a ghost, and the lines on his face seemed
to have grown deeper. He glanced up, and met my regard. Neither
of us spoke; we exchanged thoughts with our eyes. "This is our
work," we said to one another. "It was our trap, these are our
victims." I cannot even now think of that hour, for by our act
the king lay dead.
But was he dead? I seized Sapt by the arm. His glance questioned
me.
"The king," I whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, the king," he returned.
Facing round, we walked to the door of the dining-room. Here I
turned suddenly faint, and clutched at the constable. He held me
up, and pushed the door wide open. The smell of powder was in the
room; it seemed as if the smoke hung about, curling in dim coils
round the chandelier which gave a subdued light. James had the
lamp now, and followed us with it. But the king was not there. A
sudden hope filled me. He had not been killed then! I regained
strength, and darted across towards the inside room.
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