“Mabel’s writing,” he said, half to himself, as, with shaking fingers, he tore the envelope open.

The sheet of paper which he took out was almost as stiff as cardboard.  It, too, emitted what his grace deemed the nauseous odors of the perfumer’s shop.  On it was written this letter: 

“MY DEAR HEREWARD—­For Heaven’s sake do what these people require!  I don’t know what has happened or where I am, but I am nearly distracted!  They have already cut off some of my hair, and they tell me that, if you don’t let them have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past five, they will cut off my little finger too.  I would sooner die than lose my little finger—­and—­I don’t know what else besides.

    “By the token which I send you, and which has never, until now,
    been off my breast, I conjure you to help me.

    “Hereward—­help me!”

When he read that letter the duke turned white—­very white, as white as the paper on which it was written.  He passed the epistle on to Knowles.

“I suppose that also is a hoax?”

Mr. Knowles was silent.  He still yielded to his constitutional disrelish to commit himself.  At last he asked: 

“What is it that your grace proposes to do?”

The duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested a personal animosity toward the inoffensive Mr. Knowles.

“I propose, with your permission, to release the duchess from the custody of my estimable correspondent.  I propose—­always with your permission—­to comply with his modest request, and to take him his five hundred pounds in gold.”  He paused, then continued in a tone which, coming from him, meant volumes:  “Afterwards, I propose to cry quits with the concocter of this pretty little hoax, even if it costs me every penny I possess.  He shall pay more for that five hundred pounds than he supposes.”

II

The Duke of Datchet, coming out of the bank, lingered for a moment on the steps.  In one hand he carried a canvas bag which seemed well weighted.  On his countenance there was an expression which to a casual observer might have suggested that his grace was not completely at his ease.  That casual observer happened to come strolling by.  It took the form of Ivor Dacre.

Mr. Dacre looked the Duke of Datchet up and down in that languid way he has.  He perceived the canvas bag.  Then he remarked, possibly intending to be facetious: 

“Been robbing the bank?  Shall I call a cart?”

Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says.  Besides, he is the duke’s own cousin.  Perhaps a little removed; still, there it is.  So the duke smiled a sickly smile, as if Mr. Dacre’s delicate wit had given him a passing touch of indigestion.

Mr. Dacre noticed that the duke looked sallow, so he gave his pretty sense of humor another airing.

“Kitchen boiler burst?  When I saw the duchess just now I wondered if it had.”