“She never did!” says the Duchess stoutly. “I have it here under her hand. She left a billet and my chairmen brought this with them instead of the lady. ’Tis all perfectly simple.”
“Not so, Madam—not so!” he cried, almost distracted,—“for ’tis said she was only gone a few minutes when another chair exactly like the first came up, for which a man waited. He gave a letter to the chairmen and they went off as they came. ’Twas a trap—a feint to catch the poor innocent. Whose was that first chair?”
“Her mother’s, man! Whose else!” The Duchess was growing impatient. She turned towards the door.
“Would her mother’s chair be lined with red velvet and bear your Grace’s arms?”—says he with fearful earnestness. “Why were there two chairs? We trifle with precious time and more than her life may be at stake. I must see that letter, Madam, if I force it from you.”
“I dare you to touch me,”—she said tossing up her head. “Stand back. I believe ’tis all some vile plot of your own against the girl’s honour. Leave my house and——”
The further door opened. A gentleman entered carelessly, looking about him and not for a moment seeing the two in the recess.
The Duchess sprang forward with a cry.
“Bolton—Bolton! Come hither. This man insults me. He would snatch a letter— You were never more welcome than now.”
He drew his sword instantly and stood lightly leaning on it—the lady beside him.
“Give the word, Madam,” he said, “and I strike.”