He came to it at last, and, pausing, looked more closely. He was
thankful that there was not the need to touch it. The position of
the brown-haired head was such as to leave no doubt of the
complete success of his design. Her neck was broken. Lord Robert
Dudley was free to marry the Queen.
Deliberately Sir Richard stepped over the huddled body of that
poor victim of a knave's ambition, crossed the hall, and passed
out, closing the door. An excellent day's work, thought he, most
excellently accomplished. The servants, returning from Abingdon
Fair on that Sunday evening, would find her there. They would
publish the fact that in their absence her ladyship had fallen
downstairs and broken her neck, and that was the end of the
matter.
* * * * * *
But that was not the end at all. Fate, the ironic interloper, had
taken a hand in this evil game.
The court had moved a few days earlier to Windsor, and thither on
the Friday--the 6th of September--came Alvarez de Quadra to seek
the definite answer which the Queen had promised him on the
subject of the Spanish marriage. What he had seen that night at
Whitehall, coupled with his mistrust of her promises and
experience of her fickleness, had rendered him uneasy.
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