"Yes," he said; "once I saw the end of a poor soul he had maddened, and 'twas a cruel thing." He turned his face towards his wife.
"The morning that he left your Grace," he said, "'tis my thought he went not far."
"Not far?" the party exclaimed, but the Duchess joined not in the chorus.
"Between Dunstanwolde House and his lodgings," he went on, "lie some of the worst haunts in London. He was well known there, and not by friends but by enemies. Perchance some tortured creature who owed him a bitter debt may have lain in wait and paid it."
The Duchess turned and gazed at him with large eyes.
"What—" she said, almost hoarsely, "what do you mean?"
"There were men," he answered, gravely—"husbands, fathers, and brothers—there were women he had driven to despair and madness, who might well have struck him down."
"You mean," said her Grace, almost in a whisper, "you mean that he—was murdered?"
"Nay," he replied, "not murdered—struck a frenzied blow and killed, and it might have been by one driven mad with anguish and unknowing what he did."
Her Grace caught her breath.