“Ten years hath she followed his wicked footsteps and I have followed with her,” he rambled on.  “I am not squeamish, Lord knoweth! and have no reason to be; but had I known, when I began to aid in the searching, what mire I should have to wade through, ecod!  I think I should have said, ‘Let ill alone.’”

“But you did not, old friend,” said the Duchess’s rich, low voice; “you did not.”

Lady Betty and her swains had sauntered near and joined the circle, attracted by the subject which waked in them a new interest in an old mystery.

“You have been her Grace’s almoner, Sir Christopher,” said her ladyship.  “That accounts for the stories I have heard of your charities.  They were her Grace’s good deeds, not your own.”

“She knew I would sweep the kennel for her on hands and knees if she would have me,” said Sir Chris, “and at the first of it she knew not the ill quarters of the town as I did, and bade me make search for her and ask questions.  But ’twas not long before she found her way herself and learned that a tall, strong beauty can do more to reach hearts than a red-faced old man can.  Lord, how they love and fear her!  And among the honest folk Jack Oxon wronged—­poor tradesmen he ruined by his trickery, and simple working-folk who lost their all through him—­they would kiss the dust her shoe hath trod.  His debts she hath paid, his victims she hath rescued, the wounds he dealt she hath healed and made sound flesh, and for ten years she hath done it!”

Her Grace rose to her feet, the rose uplifted in a listening gesture.  From the park below there floated up the lilting music of a dance, a light, unrustic measure played by their own musicians.

“The dancing begins,” she said.  “Hark! the dancing begins.”

Mistress Anne put out her hand and caught at her sister’s dress and held a fold of its richness in her trembling hand, though her Grace was not aware of what she did.

“How sweet the music sounds,” the poor gentlewoman said, nervously.  “How sweet it sounds.”

My Lady Betty Tantillion held up her hand as the Duchess, a moment since, had held the rose.

“I have heard that tune before,” she cried.

“And I,” said Lord Charles.

“And I,” Sir Harry Granville echoed.

Lady Betty broke into a shiver.

“Why,” she cried, “how strange—­at just this moment.  We danced to it at the ball at Dunstanwolde House the very night ’twas made known Sir John Oxon had disappeared.”

The Duchess held the rose poised in her hand and slowly bent her head.

“Yes,” she said, “’tis the very tune.”

She stood among them—­my lord Duke remembered it later—­the centre figure of a sort of circle, some sitting, some standing—­his Grace of Marlborough, Mistress Anne, Osmonde himself, the country gentlemen, my Lady Betty and her swains, and others who drew near.  She was the centre, standing in the starlight, her rose held in her hand.