style="font-size:15px;"> "I suppose that also is a hoax?"
He spoke in a tone of voice which was unpleasantly cold-a coldness which Mr. Knowles was aware, from not inconsiderable experience, betokened that the Duke was white-hot within.
Mr. Knowles's demeanour, however, betrayed no sign that he was aware of anything of the kind, he being conscious that there is a certain sort of knowledge which is apt, at times, to be dangerous to its possessor. He read the letter from beginning to end.
"This certainly does resemble her Grace's writing."
"You think it does resemble it, do you? You think that there is a certain faint and distant similarity?" The Duke asked these questions quietly-too quietly. Then, all at once, he thundered-which Mr. Knowles was quite prepared for-"Why, you idiot, don't you know it is her writing?"
Mr. Knowles gave way another point. He was, constitutionally, too much of a diplomatist to concede more than a point at a time.
"So far as appearances go, I am bound to admit that I think it possible that it is her Grace's writing."
Then the Duke let fly at him-at this perfectly innocent man. But, of course, Mr. Knowles was long since inured.
"Perhaps you would like me to send for an expert in writing? Or perhaps you would prefer that I should send for half-a-dozen? And by the time that they had sent in their reports, and you had reported on their reports, and they had reported on your report of their reports, and some one or other of you had made up his mind, the Duchess would be dead. Yes, sir, and you'd have murdered her!"
His Grace hurled this frightful accusation at Mr. Knowles, as if Mr. Knowles had been a criminal standing in the dock.
While the Duke had been collecting and discharging his nice derangement of epithets his fingers had been examining the interior of the envelope which had held the letter which purported to be written by his wife. When his fingers reappeared he was holding something between his first finger and his thumb. He glanced at this himself. Then he held it out towards Mr. Knowles.
Again his voice was trembling.
"If this letter is not from the Duchess, how came that to be in the envelope?"
Mr. Knowles endeavoured to see what the Duke was holding. It was so minute an object that it was a little difficult to make out exactly what it was, and the Duke appeared to be unwilling to let it go.
So his Grace explained:
"That is the half of a sixpence which I gave to the Duchess when I asked her to be my wife. You see it is pierced. I pierced that hole in it myself. As the Duchess says in this letter, and as I have reason to know, she has worn this broken sixpence from that hour to this. If this letter is not hers, how came this token in the envelope? How came any one to know, even, that she carried it?"
Mr. Knowles was silent. He still yielded to his constitutional disrelish to commit himself. At last he asked:
"What is it that your Grace proposes to do?"
The Duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested a personal animosity towards the inoffensive Mr. Knowles.
"I propose, with your permission, to release the Duchess from the custody of my estimable correspondent. I propose-always with your permission-to comply with his modest request, and to take him his five hundred pounds in gold." He paused, then continued in a tone which, coming from him, meant volumes: "Afterwards, I propose to cry quits with the concoctor of this pretty little hoax, even if it costs me every penny I possess. He shall pay more for that five hundred pounds than he supposes."
CHAPTER II
SOUGHT
The Duke of Datchet, coming out of the bank, lingered for a moment on the steps. In one hand he carried a canvas bag, which seemed well weighted. On his countenance there was an expression which to a casual observer might have suggested that his Grace was not completely at his ease. That casual observer happened to come strolling by. It took the form of Ivor Dacre.
Mr. Dacre looked the Duke of Datchet up and down in that languid way he has. He perceived the canvas bag. Then he remarked, possibly intending to be facetious:
"Been robbing the bank? Shall I call a cart?"
Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says. Besides, he is the Duke's own cousin. Perhaps a little removed; still, there it is. So the Duke smiled a sickly smile, as if Mr. Dacre's delicate wit had given him a passing touch of indigestion.
Mr. Dacre noticed that the Duke looked sallow, so he gave his pretty sense of humour another airing:
"Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the Duchess just now I wondered if it had."
His Grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the canvas bag.
"You saw the Duchess just now, Ivor! When?"
The Duke was evidently moved. Mr. Dacre was stirred to languid curiosity.
"I can't say I clocked it. Perhaps half an hour ago; perhaps a little more."
"Half an hour ago! Are you sure? Where did you see her?"
Mr. Dacre wondered. The Duchess of Datchet could scarcely have been eloping in broad daylight. Moreover, she had not yet been married a year. Every one knew that she and the Duke were still as fond of each other as if they were not man and wife. So, although the Duke, for some cause or other, was evidently in an odd state of agitation, Mr. Dacre saw no reason why he should not make a clean breast of all he knew.
"She was going like blazes in a hansom cab."
"In a hansom cab? Where?"
"Down Waterloo Place."
"Was she alone?"
Mr. Dacre reflected. He glanced at the Duke out of the corners of his eyes. His languid utterance became a positive drawl:
"I rather fancy she wasn't."
"Who was with her?"
"My dear fellow, if you were to offer me the bank I couldn't tell you."
"Was it a man?"
Mr. Dacre's drawl became still more pronounced:
"I rather fancy that it was."
Mr. Dacre expected something. The Duke was so excited. But he by no means expected what actually came:
"Ivor, she's been kidnapped!"
Mr. Dacre did what he had never been known to do before within the memory of man-he dropped his eye-glass.
"Datchet!"
"She has! Some scoundrel has decoyed her away, and trapped her. He's already sent me a lock of her hair, and he tells me that if I don't let him have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past five he'll let me have her little finger."
Mr. Dacre did not know what to make of his Grace at all. He was a sober man-it couldn't be that! Mr. Dacre felt really concerned.
"I'll call a cab, old man, and you'd better let me see you home."
Mr. Dacre half raised his
