Bates was reduced to despair.
“I can’t, your grace! I can’t!” he cried. “It is a hanging matter, as your grace well knows.”
“For me, Bates, at law—at strict law—I believe it might be,” said the Duke indifferently.
“And since your grace is too high for hanging, it’s me that would have to be your deputy.”
“How you repeat yourself! A tiresome habit. And you but confirm me in my opinions. Yet there might be a hundred pounds or so for you as a douceur....”
“It isn’t money, your grace. I wouldn’t do it for a thousand.”
“Then there is no more to be said.” Inwardly Buckingham was very angry. Outwardly he remained icily cold. “You have leave to go, Bates, and I shall not further require your services. If you will apply to Mr. Grove he will pay you what moneys may be due to you.”
A wave of the white jewelled hand dismissed the crestfallen little scoundrel. A moment Bates wavered, hesitating, swayed by his reluctance to accept dismissal. But not even that reluctance could conquer his dread of the consequences, a dread based upon conviction that they could not fail to overtake him. Had it been anything less than a hanging matter he might have risked it. But this was too much. So, realizing that further pleadings or protestations would be wasted upon the cold arrogance of the Duke, he bowed in silence, and in silence removed himself.
If he withdrew in discomfiture, at least he left discomfiture behind him. The Duke’s trump card had failed to win him the game, and he knew not where to find another agent for the enterprise which now obsessed him.
Mr. Etheredge, coming later that day to visit him, found his grace still in a bedgown, pacing the handsome library, restless as a caged beast.