“I fail to read into monsieur’s implication,” said he. “But if it is meant to signify that madame’s peril----” “Is she in any, then? This letter merely informs me that she removes at once to London.” The confirmation of his dread had appeared somehow so foreshadowed in his reception that the blow fell upon Ned with nothing more than a little stunning shock. “And that is all?” said he, in quite a small stiff voice. “All that is essential, indeed, monsieur.” “Nothing of her terror that she is being watched and followed--that she moves within the sinister ken of the royalist emigrants--that her nerve is shattered--that she begs you to recall her?” “Nothing. But--Heaven forgive her! I recognise her style. Oh yes, yes! It is possible she has posted and dismissed you very effectively, monsieur.” He went off, for the first time, into a real laugh--a harsh cachinnation that he checked, as in mere disdain of it, in its mid-career. Ned waited, in rather an ugly manner of patience, till he was finished. Then, said he, wishing to right himself with himself on all points-- “Has posted me, as monsieur says; and, doubtless, for all exigent purposes, it was necessary only to post the letter to monsieur.” “How, then?” “At least, it would appear, its delivery by a confidential messenger was not imperative?” “_À ce qu’il paraît_,” said the duke, grinning again. “At least such a commission exhibited an excess of caution.” All the bitterness of the poor young man’s soul seemed suddenly to flush his veins. “It is thus, then,” he cried, “that you requite the hospitality lavished upon you and yours; that you take advantage of a generous sympathy extended to you, to serve your own selfish purposes at the expense of your entertainers. You deserve that no hand be put out to you but to strike you in the face, as it is in my heart to treat you, monsieur le duc!” He spoke loudly enough, and all his muscles tightened to the prick of onset. M. David ran up-- “Ta-ta-ta!” he exclaimed; “what the devil is here?” Egalité’s cheeks showed mottled white, like brawn. “Be quiet,” he said. “This is M. le Vicomte Murk, who has put himself to inconvenience to deliver me a letter.” His lips trembled a little. The wretched creature himself had a wretched nerve. “Monsieur would seem to imply,” he said, “that I am a party to the circumstance of some discomfiture he has suffered. It needs only a little reflection to disabuse himself of so extravagant a supposition.”