le 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. Here too the light was dim, and I turned to beckon for the lamp.
Sapt and James came together, and stood peering over my shoulder in the
doorway.

The king lay prone on the floor, face downwards, near the bed. He had
crawled there, seeking for some place to rest, as we supposed. He did
not move. We watched him for a moment; the silence seemed deeper
than silence could be. At last, moved by a common impulse, we stepped
forward, but timidly, as though we approached the throne of Death
himself. I was the first to kneel by the king and raise his head. Blood
had flowed from his lips, but it had ceased to flow now. He was dead.

I felt Sapt's hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw his other hand
stretched out towards the ground. I turned my eyes where he pointed.
There, in the king's hand, stained with the king'sblood, was the box
that I had carried to Wintenberg and Rupert of Hentzau had brought to
the lodge that night. It was not rest, but the box that the dying king
had sought in his last moment. I bent, and lifting his hand unclasped
the fingers, still limp and warm.

Sapt bent down with sudden eagerness. "Is it open?" he whispered.

The string was round it; the sealing-wax was unbroken. The secret
had outlived the king, and he had gone to his death unknowing. All
at once--I cannot tell why--I put my hand over my eyes; I found my
eyelashes were wet.

"Is it open