Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says. Besides, he is the Duke's own cousin. Perhaps a little removed; still, there it is. So the Duke smiled a sickly smile, as if Mr. Dacre's delicate wit had given him a passing touch of indigestion.
Mr. Dacre noticed that the Duke looked sallow, so he gave his pretty sense of humour another airing:
"Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the Duchess just now I wondered if it had."
His Grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the canvas bag.
"You saw the Duchess just now, Ivor! When?"
The Duke was evidently moved. Mr. Dacre was stirred to languid curiosity.
"I can't say I clocked it. Perhaps half an hour ago; perhaps a little more."
"Half an hour ago! Are you sure? Where did you see her?"
Mr. Dacre wondered. The Duchess of Datchet could scarcely have been eloping in broad daylight. Moreover, she had not yet been married a year. Every one knew that she and the Duke were still as fond of each other as if they were not man and wife. So, although the Duke, for some cause or other, was evidently in an odd state of agitation, Mr. Dacre saw no reason why he should not make a clean breast of all he knew.
"She was going like blazes in a hansom cab."