“Poor soul, she’s little better than a slave,” remarked Betty scornfully; “is that all?”
“No; the news of the day is the duel. It has just come out that Sir Thomas Compton shot and killed his brother-in-law last Tuesday.”
Lady Sunderland gave a little scream of surprise. “What? Shot Lord Fraunces?”
Spencer nodded gloomily.
“And wherefore?” demanded his sister.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Because he was a traitor,” he said coolly; “he kept his horse saddled in his stable ready for flight, and two grooms at his beck; this made Compton suspect him. So he went down to Deptford, on pretence of seeing his sister, and he found the fellow was in league with the French party and—There was a quarrel and he shot him. There’s an article about it in the Post-Boy.”
“The cold-hearted brute!” cried Betty; “his poor sister loved her husband dearly. Where is she?”
“Mad as Bedlam,” replied her brother coolly; “a man must do his duty, even if it kills his sister.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” said Lady Betty, rising, “he must stab her to the heart and glory in it—for his party,” she added mockingly; “a fine spirit, sir, I admire it!”