"I am beneath your Grace's commands, henceforth," said Barnabas, and plodded on down the road.
"Then I—beg of you!"
"Why?" he inquired, pausing.
"Because—oh, because you are running off with my precious needlework, of course. In your pocket, sir,—the left one!" So, perforce, Barnabas came back, and standing again beneath the finger-post, gave the Duchess her very small piece of embroidery. But, behold! his hand was caught and held between two others, which, though very fragile, were very imperious.
"Barnabas," said the Duchess very softly, "oh, dear me, I'm glad you told me, oh very! I hoped you would!"
"Hoped? Why—why, madam, you—then you knew?"
"All about it, of course! Oh, you needn't stare—it wasn't witchcraft, it was this letter—read it." And taking a letter from her reticule, she gave it to Barnabas, and watched him while he read:
TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF CAMBERHURST.
MADAM,—In justice to yourself I take occasion to warn your Grace against the person calling himself Barnabas Beverley. He is, in reality, an impudent impostor of humble birth and mean extraction. His real name and condition I will prove absolutely to your Grace at another time.
Your Grace's most humble obedt.