“Not so, Madam—not so!” he cried, almost distracted,—“for ’tis said she was only gone a few minutes when another chair exactly like the first came up, for which a man waited. He gave a letter to the chairmen and they went off as they came. ’Twas a trap—a feint to catch the poor innocent. Whose was that first chair?” “Her mother’s, man! Whose else!” The Duchess was growing impatient. She turned towards the door. “Would her mother’s chair be lined with red velvet and bear your Grace’s arms?”—says he with fearful earnestness. “Why were there two chairs? We trifle with precious time and more than her life may be at stake. I must see that letter, Madam, if I force it from you.” “I dare you to touch me,”—she said tossing up her head. “Stand back. I believe ’tis all some vile plot of your own against the girl’s honour. Leave my house and——” The further door opened. A gentleman entered carelessly, looking about him and not for a moment seeing the two in the recess. The Duchess sprang forward with a cry. “Bolton—Bolton! Come hither. This man insults me. He would snatch a letter— You were never more welcome than now.” He drew his sword instantly and stood lightly leaning on it—the lady beside him. “Give the word, Madam,” he said, “and I strike.” But Lord Baltimore did not draw. He was raging, helpless before the pair, the victim of a dreadful anxiety that left him unable to resent what at another moment had sent him flashing against his former friend. “Afterwards—afterwards!” he said fiercely—“I’ll meet you anywhere. Was I ever backward? But now— If the girl is to be saved, show me the letter. Delay is madness.” The Duke turned calm eyes on the lady. “What does he mean, Madam?” “’Tis some mad tale about Diana,” she replied angrily, “and nonsense from beginning to end. He will have it she’s carried off—I know not what all! Whereas I have it under her own hand, she’s with her mother and aunt.” “May I see this letter?” The quiet voice fell like cold water on her hot anger and the man’s. She took it instantly from the bag and laid it in his hand. He read it, Baltimore trembling like a leashed dog in his eagerness. “I don’t like the letter,”—said the Duke—“the wording is suspicious and she names no house. And I have it from Mrs. Fenton’s own lips that her mother is her sole living dependence. Who is this aunt? Why do we hear of her for the first time? Have the goodness, my Lord, to repeat your story.” He told it rapidly, but more fully than to the lady. It is easier to deal with a man and he therefore told it better. She stared at him with widened eyes as he finished. “The matter is serious,” said Bolton, and stood looking on the ground considering. “I might have believed him”—she cried,—“but that he lied in one particular and so may have lied in all! He asserted the girl is his mistress! A palpable lie.” “A palpable lie,” repeated the man beside her. “My Lord, I repeat her Grace’s charge. You have lied.”