gold to the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade within an
hour of the receipt of this. The Duchess of Datchet has been
kidnaped. An imitation duchess got into the carriage, which was
waiting outside Cane and Wilson's, and she alighted on the road.
Unless your grace does as you are requested, the Duchess of
Datchet's left-hand little finger will be at once cut off, and
sent home in time to receive the prince to dinner. Other portions
of her grace will follow. A lock of her grace's hair is inclosed
with this as an earnest of our good intentions.

"_Before_ 5:30 p.m. your grace is requested to be at the
Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade with five hundred pounds
in gold. You will there be accosted by an individual in a white
top hat, and with a gardenia in his buttonhole. You will be
entirely at liberty to give him into custody, or to have him
followed by the police, in which case the duchess's left arm, cut
off at the shoulder, will be sent home for dinner--not to mention
other extremely possible contingencies. But you are _advised_ to
give the individual in question the five hundred pounds in gold,
because in that case the duchess herself will be home in time to
receive the prince to dinner, and with one of the best stories
with which to entertain your distinguished guests they ever
heard.

"Remember! _not later than_ 5:30, unless you wish to receive her
grace's little finger."

The duke stared at this amazing epistle when he had read it as though he
found it difficult to believe the evidence of his eyes. He was not a
demonstrative person, as a rule, but this little communication astonished
even him. He read it again. Then his hands dropped to his sides, and he
swore.

He took up the lock of hair which had fallen out of the envelope. Was it
possible that it could be his wife's, the duchess? Was it possible that a
Duchess of Datchet could be kidnaped, in broad daylight, in the heart of
London, and be sent home, as it were, in pieces? Had sacrilegious hands
already been playing pranks with that great lady's hair? Certainly,
_that_ hair was so like _her_ hair that the mere resemblance made his
grace's blood run cold. He turned on Messrs. Barnes and Moysey as though
he would have liked to rend them.

"You scoundrels!"

He moved forward as though the intention had entered his ducal heart to
knock his servants down.