“For God’s sake,” he hears her saying, “let me see the duke. I must see him. It is a matter of life and death. If you tell him it is for Mr. D’Estrange he will see me, I know.” “I have no orders from his Grace to admit you,” answers Repton pompously, “and certainly cannot disturb his Grace at this hour. You must write or call again to-morrow morning, and all I can do is to report your wish to his Grace.” He bangs the door to as he speaks, but the next moment steps sound behind him, and Hector D’Estrange has seized the handle and pulled it open. His face is very white, and there is terror in his eyes. “Rita!” he calls out, “is that you, Rita? My God! what brings you here?” “Mr. D’Estrange!” she bursts out with a low, glad cry. “Oh, are you here? Thank God! thank God!” She has rushed forward and seized him by the hand, and the duke, who has followed close behind him, recognises in the youthful, fair-featured girl the sad, haggard, careworn, starving creature whom but a few years back he had rescued from prostitution and degradation. Yet in what a terrible condition she seems. Her dress is torn and mudstained, her shoes likewise, her fair, soft hair dishevelled and hanging about her face and down her back, while her expression is that of one scared by a terrible fear. “Come quick, come quick!” she cries imploringly, “before it is too late. Oh, Mr. D’Estrange! they have waylaid her, and carried her off. I saw her bound, with her poor cut bleeding hands, and could not help her; but I know where she is, and can guide you to the place, if you will only come.” “Rita,” exclaims Hector D’Estrange, in a voice the very calmness of which fills her with awe, “come into the duke’s study for a minute, and explain yourself. Follow me.” He leads the way with Evie Ravensdale following, and she close behind the duke. As for Repton, he is rigid with astonishment. The three enter the study, and the door is closed. “Now, Rita,” queries Hector excitedly, “explain.” “I will,” she cries again. “It is your mother. She was out in her favourite walk this evening about ten, and I was coming home rather late from Windsor. I saw her attacked by two men in the spinny, bound hand and foot, after having been knocked senseless. A carriage drove up, and they put her into it. My first impulse was to rush to help her and shout for assistance, but in a moment I reflected how useless that would be. I determined to hang on to the carriage behind, and see where they took her to. It was a terrible drive, but God helped me, and I succeeded, though I’m about done. I saw the house they took her into. I know the spot well; I can take you there straight now. But come, please come, or it will be too late.” There is a look of fury and hatred so intense in Hector D’Estrange’s eyes, that the duke can hardly recognise him as the sweet, gentle-featured friend whom he loves so dearly.