"But I have loved you right along," she persisted. "We heard that you were dead—and so I thought I might as well marry Mark, you know—because nothing seemed to matter. Oh, don't send me away! Look—I have carried your wallet all these years."
Well, of course, Peaches exaggerated a little when she said that, but it was no time for correcting her statement. And anyhow the duke didn't seem to care. With a swift gesture he took it from her.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, looking into her eyes. "No? And still you believe in me!"
"I knew there was something in it!" exclaimed Richard, the chauffeur. And he was right. There was. To think that I could have overlooked such a fact!
Hurriedly the duke took out his penknife, ripped the edges apart, and from the interlining took out a thin packet wrapped in waterproof tissue. And I had felt that pad and thought it was mere stuffing! With skillful—too skillful—fingers he unfolded the covering, and opening up the paper it contained he spread it upon the table for us all to see.
"Look!" he said. "I want you to understand what this is before we go any further. This bit of paper is a carte blanche from—from a very important person in Italy. See, his signature."
We looked—and though I was the only one of the three that could read Italian the two others were scarcely less impressed than I was. For the duke had spoken truly.
"Carte blanche," said Peaches. "That means 'free hand', doesn't it? But how does that square you, Sandy dear?"
"It doesn't, really," said he. "But if you'll all sit down I'll tell you just where it comes in. It's rather a long story," he added. "And my boat sails at eight o'clock."
As if in a dream we did as he suggested. The duke himself stood before the open hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent in silence for a moment. Then he raised it as if shaking off some evil dream and began his extraordinary story.