"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.
"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?"
Mr. Knowles was silent. He still yielded to his constitutional disrelish to commit himself. At last he asked:
"What is it that your grace proposes to do?"
The duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested a personal animosity toward the inoffensive Mr. Knowles.
"I propose, with your permission, to release the duchess from the custody of my estimable correspondent. I propose—always with your permission—to comply with his modest request, and to take him his five hundred pounds in gold." He paused, then continued in a tone which, coming from him, meant volumes: "Afterwards, I propose to cry quits with the concocter of this pretty little hoax, even if it costs me every penny I possess. He shall pay more for that five hundred pounds than he supposes."