“I shall know how to defend my honour later,” said Baltimore—a red fever-spot on either white cheek—“but now—I live, I breathe but to find the girl. Let us be enemies, but at this moment, man, help me to save her that is got into some villain’s hands. Madam, will you not retire? This is a matter for men.” Bolton’s eye seconded him. She curtseyed, and as the Duke held the door open for her she whispered low: “Beware lest it be a trap of his own. Tell me all that passes.” They were alone, the Duke still leaning on his sword. “I will be frank. I don’t trust you. I know your pursuit of this poor woman to be most unmanly. It hath drove her almost to despair. Why should I believe a word you utter?” “For her sake!” says Baltimore, raging yet subdued by this freezing contempt. He paused a moment—then added. “But I was a fool to come here. I don’t want your help—yours least of all. I go my way and act as I can. My seconds shall meet yours later.” He made for the door, but the Duke was still beside him. “We will go together,”—he said, and the two went down the great staircase, the grooms of the chambers and lacqueys staring after them, for there was a something strange and ominous in their looks and companionship that tinged the air with doubt. In the street, the Duke halted. “Your plan?” he asked. “I know not—how should I? It’s Sunday, curse it! Where does Rich go Sundays? The playhouse is shut. ’Tis impossible to find a soul.” “Whence then the rumour you heard?” “My man brought it from Portugal Street.” “Then we go there.” In Portugal Street, the Sunday leisure set free groups of persons, slatternly women and half drunken men to talk over all the news of the day and of all the items the story of the last night was the most favoured. Under the stinking oil lamps, along the gutters, about the dirty cobble-stones the rumours, amplified now beyond recognition, flew to and fro. Polly was muffled and forced into the chair. She had waved her hand for help. A man with his collar pulled up about his face was guessed to be Sir Charles Jermyn that had long loitered about her. So it raged on, and both men knew that ’twas all false and this but wasting precious time. “Who shall say she did not go by her own choice?” mutters Baltimore at last—almost under his breath as if it was wrung out of him, as they stood by the corner to consider. “If your Lordship had won her, yourself could answer that question,” said the Duke. “She is no wanton.” “The Devil knows what a woman may be.” Again he fell silent. Bolton turned from him to a little group of women clustered at a door. “You all know Mrs. Fenton!” “Why yes, your Worship. God bless her pretty face. We see her come and go daily.” “Do you also know Mrs. Bishop?” “Why yes, your Worship. . . . Why not? We see her as often.” “Where is her lodging?” “Turn up the corner, your Honour. Trenton Street, forty-five.”