Mr. Dacre expected something. The Duke was so excited. But he by no means expected what actually came:
"Ivor, she's been kidnapped!"
Mr. Dacre did what he had never been known to do before within the memory of man--he dropped his eye-glass.
"Datchet!"
"She has! Some scoundrel has decoyed her away, and trapped her. He's already sent me a lock of her hair, and he tells me that if I don't let him have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past five he'll let me have her little finger."
Mr. Dacre did not know what to make of his Grace at all. He was a sober man--it couldn't be that! Mr. Dacre felt really concerned.
"I'll call a cab, old man, and you'd better let me see you home."
Mr. Dacre half raised his stick to hail a passing hansom. The Duke caught him by the arm.
"You ass! What do you mean? I am telling you the simple truth. My wife's been kidnapped."
Mr. Dacre's countenance was a thing to be seen--and remembered.