It was barely half-past nine that night when a fly dashed up to the door of the Sheridans’ house, and a lady wearing a travelling-cloak lined with quilted pink satin sprang to the ground and battered at the door of the house. She met Dick Sheridan in the hall.
“Dick—Dick,” she gasped, “a dreadful thing has happened! O Dick, he has got her in his power now—Mathews—a plot—a vile plot to abduct her! He is on his way to London with her now in a chaise with four horses.”
“Woman, what do you mean? Good God! Mathews—Betsy—is it Betsy, you mean?” cried Dick.
“Yes—yes—Betsy! Oh, why do you wait here like a fool? Why are you not on your way after them? Follow them, Dick!—follow them and save her for yourself. She is yours, Dick. I never was yours! Ah, man, why do you stand there? Oh, I am dead!”
She dropped into a chair, gasping.
Dick caught her hand, and when he found that it was warm he kissed it.
She laughed, and her laugh continued long after he had rushed out of the house; it went on and on, and the two Sheridan girls stood by listening in horror to that laugh.