"Good heavens!" repeated Mrs. Verulam, falling back from the window as pale as death.
"It is Bream! I knew it! It is Bream!"
"The Duke and Mr. Rodney!" whispered Mrs. Verulam.
Chloe was dumb with mingled relief and surprise.
"It can't—they can't——"
"It is. They are."
It was. They were. Carrying several hoes, they reached the wicket-gate, and advanced into the garden of the paragon.
The Duchess, aware of the flight of Mrs. Verulam and Chloe, was just opening the small door of the mushroom-house in the hope of making good her escape, when, to her horror, she heard the voice of her lawful husband say: "I shall kill him, without a doubt."
A second voice, which she also knew too well, replied in a trembling manner:
"Indeed, I fervently hope so, Duke—I fervently hope so. Still, we can never tell in these matters. A false step, the breaking of a hoe at a critical juncture, and—you have made your will, I hope?"