“I do not know.—I—cannot tell.”
“One moment more. I begged these gentlemen to allow me to wipe out the insult I had unhappily offered to Bath, but particularly to you. They agreed not to forestall me or to interfere. I left Sir John Wimpledon's early, and arranged to give the sorry rascal a lashing under your own eyes, a satisfaction due the lady into whose presence he had dared to force himself.”
“'Noblesse oblige'?” said M. Beaucaire in a tone of gentle inquiry.
“And now, madam,” said the Duke, “I will detain you not one second longer. I plead the good purpose of my intentions, begging you to believe that the desire to avenge a hateful outrage, next to the wish to serve you, forms the dearest motive in the heart of Winterset.”
“Bravo!” cried Beaucaire softly.
Lady Mary leaned toward him, a thriving terror in her eyes. “It is false?” she faltered.
“Monsieur should not have been born so high. He could have made little book'.”
“You mean it is false?” she cried breathlessly.
“'Od's blood, is she not convinced?” broke out Mr. Bantison. “Fellow, were you not the ambassador's barber?”
“It is all false?” she whispered.