The Duke stood still. He clenched his fists, and swore: "Ivor, if that ---- villain doesn't keep his word, and Mabel isn't home within the hour, by ---- I shall go mad!" "My dear Datchet"--Mr. Dacre loved strong language as little as he loved a scene--"let us trust to time and, a little, to your white-hatted and gardenia-button-holed friend's word of honour. You should have thought of possible eventualities before you showed your confidence--really. Suppose, instead of going mad, we first of all go home?" A hansom stood waiting for a fare at the end of the Arcade. Mr. Dacre had handed the Duke into it before his Grace had quite realised that the vehicle was there. "Tell the fellow to drive faster." That was what the Duke said when the cab had started. "My dear Datchet, the man's already driving his geegee off its legs. If a bobby catches sight of him he'll take his number." A moment later, a murmur from the Duke: "I don't know if you're aware that the Prince is coming to dinner?" "I am perfectly aware of it." "You take it uncommonly coolly. How easy it is to bear our brother's burdens! Ivor, if Mabel doesn't turn up I shall feel like murder." "I sympathise with you, Datchet, with all my heart, though, I may observe, parenthetically, that I very far from realise the situation even yet. Take my advice. If the Duchess does not show quite so soon as we both of us desire, don't make a scene; just let me see what I can do." Judging from the expression of his countenance, the Duke was conscious of no overwhelming desire to witness an exhibition of Mr. Dacre's prowess. When the cab reached Datchet House his Grace dashed up the steps three at a time. The door flew open. "Has the Duchess returned?" "Hereward!" A voice floated downwards from above. Some one came running down the stairs. It was her Grace of Datchet. "Mabel!" She actually rushed into the Duke's extended arms. And he kissed her, and she kissed him--before the servants. "So you're not quite dead?" she cried. "I am almost," he said. She drew herself a little away from him. "Hereward, were you seriously hurt?" "Do you suppose that I could have been otherwise than seriously hurt?" "My darling! Was it a Pickford's van?" The Duke stared: "A Pickford's van? I don't understand. But come in here. Come along, Ivor. Mabel, you don't see Ivor." "How do you do, Mr. Dacre?" Then the trio withdrew into a little ante-room; it was really time. Even then the pair conducted themselves as if Mr. Dacre had been nothing and no one. The Duke took the lady's two hands in his. He eyed her fondly. "So you are uninjured, with the exception of that lock of hair. Where did the villain take it from?" The lady looked a little puzzled: "What lock of hair?" From an envelope which he took from his pocket the Duke produced a shining tress. It was the lock of hair which had arrived in the first communication. "I will have it framed."