"I don't mean that. But I mean how am I to know, now that he has his money, that he will still not keep Mabel in his clutches?" There came an echo from Mr. Dacre. "Just so--how are you to know?" "I believe that something of this sort has been done in the States." "I thought that there they were content to kidnap them after they were dead. I was not aware that they had, as yet, got quite so far as the living." "I believe that I have heard of something just like this." "Possibly; they are giants over there." "And in that case the scoundrels, when their demands were met, refused to keep to the letter of their bargain and asked for more." The duke stood still. He clinched his fists, and swore: "Ivor, if that--villain doesn't keep his word, and Mabel isn't home within the hour, by--I shall go mad!" "My dear Datchet"--Mr. Dacre loved strong language as little as he loved a scene--"let us trust to time and, a little, to your white-hatted and gardenia-buttonholed friend's word of honor. You should have thought of possible eventualities before you showed your confidence--really. Suppose, instead of going mad, we first of all go home?" A hansom stood waiting for a fare at the end of the Arcade. Mr. Dacre had handed the duke into it before his grace had quite realized that the vehicle was there. "Tell the fellow to drive faster." That was what the duke said when the cab had started. "My dear Datchet, the man's already driving his geerage off its legs. If a bobby catches sight of him he'll take his number." A moment later, a murmur from the duke: "I don't know if you're aware that the prince is coming to dinner?" "I am perfectly aware of it." "You take it uncommonly cool. How easy it is to bear our brother's burdens! Ivor, if Mabel doesn't turn up I shall feel like murder." "I sympathize with you, Datchet, with all my heart, though, I may observe, parenthetically, that I very far from realize the situation even yet. Take my advice. If the duchess does not show quite as soon as we both of us desire, don't make a scene; just let me see what I can do." Judging from the expression of his countenance, the duke was conscious of no overwhelming desire to witness an exhibition of Mr. Dacre's prowess. When the cab reached Datchet House his grace dashed up the steps three at a time. The door flew open. "Has the duchess returned?" "Hereward!" A voice floated downward from above. Some one came running down the stairs. It was her Grace of Datchet. "Mabel!" She actually rushed into the duke's extended arms. And he kissed her, and she kissed him--before the servants. "So you're not quite dead?" she cried. "I am almost," he said. She drew herself a little away from him. "Hereward, were you seriously hurt?" "Do you suppose that I could have been otherwise than seriously hurt?" "My darling! Was it a Pickford's van?" The duke stared. "A Pickford's van? I don't understand. But come in here. Come along, Ivor. Mabel, you don't see Ivor."