Richard went the colour of ashes. He faltered a moment, then took refuge in the truth, for all that he knew beforehand that the truth was bound to ring more false than any lie he could invent.
“That letter was not addressed to me,” he stammered.
Albemarle read the subscription, “To my good friend W., at Bridgwater.” He looked up, a heavy sneer thrusting his heavy lip still further out. “What do you say to that? Does not 'W' stand for Westmacott?”
“It does not.”
“Of course not,” said Albemarle with heavy sarcasm. “It stands for Wilkins, or Williams, or... or... What-not.”
“Indeed, I can bear witness that it does not,” exclaimed Sir Rowland.
“Be silent, sir, I tell you!” bawled the Duke at him again. “You shall bear witness soon enough, I promise you. To whom, then,” he resumed, turning again to Richard, “do you say that this letter was addressed?”
“To Mr. Wilding—Mr. Anthony Wilding,” Richard answered.
“I would have Your Grace to observe,” put in Trench ard quietly, “that Mr. Wilding, properly speaking, does not reside in Bridgwater.”
“Tush!” cried Albemarle; “the rogue but mentions the first name with a 'W' that occurs to him. He's not even an ingenious liar. And how, sir,” he asked Richard, “does it come to be in your possession, having been addressed, as you say, to Mr. Wilding?”