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 kidnaped."
Mr. Dacre's countenance was a thing to be seen—and remembered.
"Oh! I hadn't heard that there was much of that sort of thing about just now. They talk of poodles being kidnaped, but as for duchesses—You'd really better let me call that cab."
"Ivor, do you want me to kick you? Don't you see that to me it's a question of life and death? I've been in there to get the money." His grace motioned toward the bank. "I'm going to take it to the scoundrel who has my darling at his mercy. Let me but have her hand in mine again, and he shall continue to pay for every sovereign with tears of blood until he dies."
"Look here, Datchet, I don't know if you're having a joke with me, or if you're not well—"
The duke stepped impatiently into the roadway.
"Ivor, you're a fool! Can't you tell jest from earnest, health from disease? I'm off! Are you coming with me? It would be as well that I should have a witness."
"Where are you off to?"
"To the other end of the Arcade."