“Oh, Lud, surely he made a mistake; or you have misheard him, sirrah. He will be back at four, and I'll e'n wait for him in the painting-room. If he have not returned by the half hour I will tarry no longer.” She walked past the servant--he made no demur--and entered the studio. Sauntering about for a few moments, she then went to the door and locked it. She hastened to a shelf on which lay some broken chalks. In a few moments, standing before the tall mirror, she had completely altered her face; she had “made up” her features and complexion as those of an old woman. Then from apparently capacious pockets in the cloak which she wore she brought forth a grey wig of many curls, which she put over her own chestnut hair; and a servant's apron which completely hid her gown. A few adroit touches transformed her into a venerable person of much respectability--one whose appearance suggested that of an aged retainer in a family where her services were properly valued. She surveyed herself in the glass, saying, “Her Grace will, I can swear, recognise the good woman whose sense of duty compelled her to address so mighty a lady touching the vile conspiracy to which Her Grace is to be made privy.” While she was standing back from the glass, laughing as she kissed the tips of her fingers to the figure who responded in like fashion, a gentle knock sounded on the small side door that led into the arched passage to the garden--the door by which the painter's models were admitted to the studio without passing through the house. The actress, giving a final smooth to her apron, hastened to open the door, but only to the extent of an inch or two. “What's your business, madam?” she inquired, in the quavering accents of age, through the opening. “I have come hither for Mrs. Freeman's frock,” was the reply in a low voice. “It will be ready for you in half an hour, my good woman,” said the actress. “Meantime, enter and wait.” She admitted a muffled and closely-veiled figure, and, when she had closed the door, made an old-fashioned curtesy. “You are Mrs. Smollett?” said the figure, in a low voice, after glancing round the studio. “Elizabeth Smollett, your Grace, is my name,” quavered Mrs. Barry. “Ah, madam, you have had the courage to come hither.” “Courage?” said the Duchess. “It needed none. If what your letter told me be true, it is time that some true friend of the Queen's came hither. Is it possible that your master, Sir Godfrey, knoweth naught of the plot?” “He knoweth naught, madam. The head and front of the wicked business came to him as his _valet de chambre_ with the best recommendations. It was only by accident that I discovered the fellow's motives. He was for three years at St. Germains.”