Mrs. Spencer shot a quick glance at him—­but he gave no answer back.

“Your Majesty has omitted one little matter,” she said.  “By whom shall I say the money was paid?”

“Thank you—­so I had.  Make it—­by persons to you unknown.”

Mrs. Spencer smiled frankly.

“Your Majesty was quite right,” she said.  “The play is over.”

She touched a bell—­the maid entered.

“My jewel case,” she said.

The King crossed to a writing desk and, taking pen and ink, placed them on the table.  Then the maid brought the casket.

From the bottom tray, Mrs. Spencer took a paper and handed it to the King, who, after a glance, returned it.

“If your Majesty will dictate, I will write,” she said.

Slowly, Frederick repeated the confession—­and the pen scratched out line after line on the white page.  When it was ended, she passed it back again to the King, and he read it carefully.

“Sign it, please,” he said.

She looked up, with an amused smile.

“With what name?” she asked.

“Your lawful one,” said Frederick.

“Madeline Spencer,” she answered—­and dashed it off.

Then, for the first time since we entered the room, the King looked at Lotzen.  Hitherto, he had ignored him, utterly.

“Witness it,” he said sternly.

I smiled—­and so did Madeline Spencer.  It was the refinement of retribution.

Without a word or a change of feature, Lotzen obeyed.  Then Frederick, himself, signed it; and, folding it carefully, gave it to me.

“Will Your Majesty graciously pardon the violence I offered you?” Mrs. Spencer said.

Frederick nodded.

“Readily, madame,” he said.  “In a way, you were justified—­and, then, you missed me.  Had you hit me, my pardon might not have been required.”

“And will you not tell me how you discovered the truth?” she asked.

“I chanced to learn of this meeting with His Royal Highness, the Duke of Lotzen, and was a witness of all that occurred here between you.”

“You cannot mean that you overheard our conversation!” she exclaimed.

“Every word,” said the King.

“But where—­and how?”

The Duke glanced up toward the Gallery—­and a bitter smile crossed his face.

“His Grace of Lotzen has guessed it,” said Frederick.

She turned to the Duke interrogatingly.

“The gallery—­behind the arras, yonder,” he said.

“Exactly,” said the King.

“And you forgot the Gallery?” Mrs. Spencer asked, mockingly.

“Yes,” said he, with a shrug and a lift of his eyebrows, “I forgot it.”

She turned to the King.

“I shall be ready, Sire, to depart for Paris on the evening train, to-morrow,” she said.

“You shall have the permit in the morning,” he answered.

Then he turned to Lotzen—­and the Duke saw and understood.  He straightened up and his heels came together sharply.