“To the best of my belief, Sir Norman, I am not,” replied Hubert, reflectively.
“Well, it is all very strange, and very aggravating,” said Sir Norman, sighing, and sheathing his sword. “She is gone, at all events; no doubt about that—and if you have not carried her off, somebody else has.”
“Perhaps she has gone herself,” insinuated Hubert.
“Bah! Gone herself!” said Sir Norman, scornfully. “The idea is beneath contempt: I tell you, Master Fine-feathers, the lady and I were to be married bright and early to-morrow morning, and leave this disgusting city for Devonshire. Do you suppose, then, she would run out in the small hours of the morning, and go prancing about the streets, or eloping with herself?”
“Why, of course, Sir Norman, I can't take it upon myself to answer positively; but, to use the mildest phrase, I must say the lady seems decidedly eccentric, and capable of doing very queer things. I hope, however, you believe me; for I earnestly assure you, I never laid eyes on her but that once.”
“I believe you,” said Sir Norman, with another profound and broken-hearted sigh, “and I'm only too sure she has been abducted by that consummate scoundrel and treacherous villain, Count L'Estrange.”
“Count who?” said Hubert, with a quick start, and a look of intense curiosity. “What was the name?”
“L'Estrange—a scoundrel of the deepest dye! Perhaps you know him?”
“No,” replied Hubert, with a queer, half musing smile, “no; but I have a notion I have heard the name. Was he a rival of yours?”
“I should think so! He was to have been married to the lady this very night!”