“A palpable lie,” repeated the man beside her. “My Lord, I repeat her Grace’s charge. You have lied.”
“I shall know how to defend my honour later,” said Baltimore—a red fever-spot on either white cheek—“but now—I live, I breathe but to find the girl. Let us be enemies, but at this moment, man, help me to save her that is got into some villain’s hands. Madam, will you not retire? This is a matter for men.”
Bolton’s eye seconded him. She curtseyed, and as the Duke held the door open for her she whispered low:
“Beware lest it be a trap of his own. Tell me all that passes.”
They were alone, the Duke still leaning on his sword.
“I will be frank. I don’t trust you. I know your pursuit of this poor woman to be most unmanly. It hath drove her almost to despair. Why should I believe a word you utter?”
“For her sake!” says Baltimore, raging yet subdued by this freezing contempt. He paused a moment—then added. “But I was a fool to come here. I don’t want your help—yours least of all. I go my way and act as I can. My seconds shall meet yours later.”
He made for the door, but the Duke was still beside him.
“We will go together,”—he said, and the two went down the great staircase, the grooms of the chambers and lacqueys staring after them, for there was a something strange and ominous in their looks and companionship that tinged the air with doubt.
In the street, the Duke halted.