Lady Nithsdale's first impulse would have led her to the Tower, but it was too late to hope for admittance, and she thought that from the Duchess of Montrose she was most likely to learn how it fared with her husband, and what steps it might be most advisable for her to take. Leaving Amy, therefore, to make what arrangements were necessary for their accommodation, she instantly took coach and proceeded to the residence of the Duke of Montrose. She sent word by a servant to the duchess, that a person desired to see her grace upon business of importance, and with the message she gave a written billet entreating to see her in private. She did not sign the paper, not feeling assured how far any communication with the wife of a state prisoner might compromise the duchess herself. She was certain that the sight of her hand writing would procure her instant admission; and yet the few moments she passed waiting in the street were spent in a state of mental agitation which surprised herself. It was a painfully new situation for the daughter of the Duke of Powis, who was thoroughly imbued with the indelible nobility of aristocratic birth, to find herself alone, in a hired coach, as a suitor at the door of one with whom she had ever lived on terms of equality and intimacy. It was not that she doubted the kindness, the sincerity, the generosity, of her good friend and cousin; but she now felt more lost, more unprotected, in the busy, noisy, thronged streets of London, than she had done in all the difficulties of her perilous journey. Only a few moments, however, elapsed before the portals were thrown open, and she found herself ushered through the rank of powdered liveried domestics, who in those days were deemed indispensable appendages to the great, into a small ante-room on the ground-floor. Lady Nithsdale sank on a seat, bewildered, overcome. It all seemed to her like a strange dream. What news might await her! Three weeks had elapsed since the date of the duchess's letter--what fearful events might not have occurred! The door opened; the duchess appeared, beautiful, brilliant, blooming, glittering in diamonds and jewels, and rustling in satins and point-lace. "My sweet cousin! my dear Winifred!" exclaimed the duchess. "Oh, Christian! dearest friend!" and Lady Nithsdale rushed into her open arms, and wept upon her neck. For twelve days body and mind had been upon the stretch, and the words, the tones of kindness at this moment of exhaustion, completely unnerved her. "How is he?" she inquired, as she sobbed upon the duchess's bosom. "Well, dear cousin, well. Compose yourself; why is this, my gentle, staid, tranquil cousin of Nithsdale? These tears, this trembling, do not promise well for the work you have in hand."