The duke’s anger was more than Barnes could face.  He was silent.  Moysey showed a larger courage.

“I could have sworn that it was at the time, your grace.  But now it seems to me that it’s a rummy go.”

“A rummy go!” The peculiarity of the phrase did not seem to strike the duke just then—­at least, he echoed it as if it didn’t.  “You call it a rummy go!  Do you know that I am told in this letter that the woman who entered the carriage was not the duchess?  What you were thinking about, or what case you will be able to make out for yourselves, you know better than I; but I can tell you this—­that in an hour you will leave my service, and you may esteem yourselves fortunate if, to-night, you are not both of you sleeping in jail.”

One might almost have suspected that the words were spoken in irony.  But before they could answer, another servant entered, who also brought a letter for the duke.  When his grace’s glance fell on it he uttered an exclamation.  The writing on the envelope was the same writing that had been on the envelope which had contained the very singular communication—­like it in all respects, down to the broomstick-end thickness of the “Private!” and “Very pressing!!!” in the corner.

“Who brought this?” stormed the duke.

The servant appeared to be a little startled by the violence of his grace’s manner.

“A lady—­or, at least, your grace, she seemed to be a lady.”

“Where is she?”

“She came in a hansom, your grace.  She gave me that letter, and said, ‘Give that to the Duke of Datchet at once—­without a moment’s delay!’ Then she got into the hansom again, and drove away.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

“Your grace!”

The man seemed surprised, as though the idea of stopping chance visitors to the ducal mansion vi et armis had not, until that moment, entered into his philosophy.  The duke continued to regard the man as if he could say a good deal, if he chose.  Then he pointed to the door.  His lips said nothing, but his gesture much.  The servant vanished.

“Another hoax!” the duke said grimly, as he tore the envelope open.

This time the envelope contained a sheet of paper, and in the sheet of paper another envelope.  The duke unfolded the sheet of paper.  On it some words were written.  These: 

“The duchess appears so particularly anxious to drop you a line, that one really hasn’t the heart to refuse her.

“Her grace’s communication—­written amidst blinding tears!—­you will find inclosed with this.”

“Knowles,” said the duke, in a voice which actually trembled, “Knowles, hoax or no hoax, I will be even with the gentleman who wrote that.”

Handing the sheet of paper to Mr. Knowles, his grace turned his attention to the envelope which had been inclosed.  It was a small, square envelope, of the finest quality, and it reeked with perfume.  The duke’s countenance assumed an added frown—­he had no fondness for envelopes which were scented.  In the center of the envelope were the words, “To the Duke of Datchet,” written in the big, bold, sprawling hand which he knew so well.