On it was written this letter:
"My dear Hereward,--For Heaven's sake do what these people require! I don't know what has happened or where I am, but I am nearly distracted! They have already cut off some of my hair, and they tell me that, if you don't let them have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past five, they will cut off my little finger too. I would sooner die than lose my little finger--and--I don't know what else besides.
"By the token which I send you, and which has never, until now, been off my breast, I conjure you to help me.--MABEL.
"Hereward--help me!"
When he read that letter the Duke turned white--very white, as white as the paper on which it was written. He passed the epistle on to Knowles.
"I suppose that also is a hoax?"
He spoke in a tone of voice which was unpleasantly cold--a coldness which Mr. Knowles was aware, from not inconsiderable experience, betokened that the Duke was white-hot within.
Mr. Knowles's demeanour, however, betrayed no sign that he was aware of anything of the kind, he being conscious that there is a certain sort of knowledge which is apt, at times, to be dangerous to its possessor. He read the letter from beginning to end.
"This certainly does resemble her Grace's writing."
"You think it does resemble it, do you? You think that there is a certain faint and distant similarity?" The Duke asked these questions quietly--too quietly. Then, all at once, he thundered--which Mr. Knowles was quite prepared for--"Why, you idiot, don't you know it is her writing?"