s 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."

II

The Duke of Datchet, coming out of the bank, lingered for a moment on the
steps. In one hand he carried a canvas bag which seemed well weighted. On
his countenance there was an expression which to a casual observer might
have suggested that his grace was not completely at his ease. That casual
observer happened to come strolling by. It took the form of Ivor Dacre.

Mr. Dacre looked the Duke of Datchet up and down in that languid way he
has. He perceived the canvas bag. Then he remarked, possibly intending to
be facetious:

"Been robbing the bank? Shall I call a cart?"

Nobody minds what Ivor Dacre says. Besides, he is the duke's own cousin.
Perhaps a little removed; still, there it is. So the duke smiled a sickly
smile, as if Mr. Dacre's delicate wit had given him a passing touch of
indigestion.

Mr. Dacre noticed that the duke looked sallow, so he gave his pretty sense
of humor another airing.

"Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the duchess just now I wondered if it
had."

His grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the canvas bag.

"You saw the duchess just now, Ivor! When?"

The duke was evidently moved. Mr. Dacre was stirred to languid curiosity.
"I can't say I clocked it. Perhaps half an hour ago; perhaps a little
more."

"Half an hour ago! Are you sure? Where did you see her?"

Mr. Dacre wondered. The Duchess of Datchet could scarcely have been
eloping in broad daylight. Moreover, she had not yet been married a year.
Everyone knew that she and the duke were still as fond of each other as if
they were not man and wife. So, although the duke, for some cause or
other, was evidently in an odd state of agitation, Mr. Dacre saw no reason
why he should not make a clean breast of all he knew.

"She was going like blazes in a hansom cab."

"In a hansom cab? Where?"

"Down Waterloo Place."

"Was she alone?"

Mr. Dacre reflected. He glanced at the duke out of the corners of his
eyes. His languid utterance became a positive drawl.

"I rather fancy that she wasn't."

"Who was with her?"

"My dear fellow, if you were to of