Amusement Only. Richard Marsh

so. He escorted them out of the room with a dexterity and a celerity which did him credit, and in a remarkably short space of time he returned to the ducal presence. He was the Duke's own servant--his own particular man. He was a little older than the Duke, and he had been his servant almost ever since the Duke had been old enough to have a servant of his very own. Probably James Knowles knew more than any living creature of the Duke's "secret history"--as they call it in the chroniques scandaleuses--of his little peculiarities, of his strong points, and his weak ones. And, in the possession of this knowledge, he had borne himself in a manner which had caused the Duke to come to look upon him as a man in whom he might have confidence--that confidence which a penitent has in a confessor--to look upon him as a trusted and a trustworthy friend.

      When Knowles reappeared the Duke handed him the curious epistle with which he had been favoured.

      "Read that, and tell me what you think of it."

      Knowles read it. His countenance was even more of a mask than the Duke's. He evinced no sign of astonishment.

      "I am inclined, your Grace, to think that it's a hoax."

      "A hoax! I don't know what you call a hoax! That is not a hoax!" The Duke held out the lock of hair which had fallen from the envelope. "I have compared it with the hair in my locket, and it is the Duchess's hair."

      "May I look at it?"

      The Duke handed it to Knowles. Knowles examined it closely.

      "It resembles her Grace's hair."

      "Resembles! It is her hair."

      Knowles still continued to reflect. He offered a suggestion.

      "Shall I send for the police?"

      "The police! What's the good of sending for the police? If what that letter says is true, by the time I have succeeded in making a thick-skulled constable understand what has happened the Duchess will be--will be mutilated!"

      The Duke turned away as if the thought were frightful--as, indeed, it was.

      "Is that all you can suggest?"

      "Unless your Grace proposes taking the five hundred pounds."

      One might almost have suspected that the words were spoken in irony. But before he could answer another servant entered, who also brought a letter for the Duke. When his Grace's glance fell on it he uttered an exclamation. The writing on the envelope was the same writing that had been on the envelope which had contained the very singular communication--like it in all respects down to the broomstick-end thickness of the "Private!" and "Very pressing!!!" in the corner.

      "Who brought this?" stormed the Duke.

      The servant appeared to be a little startled by the violence of his Grace's manner.

      "A lady--or, at least, your Grace, she seemed to be a lady."

      "Where is she?"

      "She came in a hansom, your Grace. She gave me that letter, and said, 'Give that to the Duke of Datchet at once--without a moment's delay!' Then she got into the hansom again, and drove away."

      "Why didn't you stop her?"

      "Your Grace!"

      The man seemed surprised, as though the idea of stopping chance visitors to the ducal mansion vi et armis had not, until that moment, entered into his philosophy. The Duke continued to regard the man as if he could say a good deal, if he chose. Then he pointed to the door. His lips said nothing, but his gesture much. The servant vanished.

      "Another hoax!" the Duke said, grimly, as he tore the envelope open.

      This time the envelope contained a sheet of paper, and in the sheet of paper another envelope. The Duke unfolded the sheet of paper. On it some words were written. These:

      "The Duchess appears so particularly anxious to drop you a line, that one really hasn't the heart to refuse her. Her Grace's communication--written amidst blinding tears!--you will find enclosed with this."

      "Knowles," said the Duke, in a voice which actually trembled, "Knowles, hoax or no hoax, I will be even with the gentleman who wrote that."

      Handing the sheet of paper to Mr. Knowles, his Grace turned his attention to the envelope which had been enclosed. It was a small square envelope, of the finest quality, and it reeked with perfume. The Duke's countenance assumed an added frown--he had no fondness for envelopes which were scented. In the centre of the envelope were the words "To the Duke of Datchet," written in the big, bold, sprawling hand which he knew so well.

      "Mabel's writing," he said to himself, as, with shaking fingers, he tore the envelope open.

      The sheet of paper which he took out was almost as stiff as cardboard. It, too, emitted what his Grace deemed the nauseous odours of the perfumer's shop.

      On it was written this letter:

      "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.--MABEL.

      "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?"

      He spoke in a tone of voice which was unpleasantly cold--a coldness which Mr. Knowles was aware, from not inconsiderable experience, betokened that the Duke was white-hot within.

      Mr. Knowles's demeanour, however, betrayed no sign that he was aware of anything of the kind, he being conscious that there is a certain sort of knowledge which is apt, at times, to be dangerous to its possessor. He read the letter from beginning to end.

      "This certainly does resemble her Grace's writing."

      "You think it does resemble it, do you? You think that there is a certain faint and distant similarity?" The Duke asked these questions quietly--too quietly. Then, all at once, he thundered--which Mr. Knowles was quite prepared for--"Why, you idiot, don't you know it is her writing?"

      Mr. Knowles gave way another point. He was, constitutionally, too much of a diplomatist to concede more than a point at a time.

      "So far as appearances go, I am bound to admit that I think it possible that it is her Grace's writing."

      Then the Duke let fly at him--at this perfectly innocent man. But, of course, Mr. Knowles was long since inured.

      "Perhaps you would like me to send for an expert in writing? Or perhaps you would prefer that I should send for half-a-dozen? And by the time that they had sent in their reports, and you had reported on their reports, and they had reported on your report of their reports, and some one or other of you had made up his mind, the Duchess would be dead. Yes, sir, and you'd have murdered her!"

      His Grace hurled this frightful accusation at Mr. Knowles, as if Mr. Knowles had been a criminal standing in the dock.

      While the Duke had been collecting and discharging his nice derangement of epithets his fingers had been examining the interior of the envelope which had held the letter which purported to be written by his wife. When his fingers reappeared he was holding something between his first finger and his thumb. He glanced at this himself. Then he held it out towards Mr. Knowles.

      Again his voice was trembling.

      "If this letter is not from the Duchess, how came that to be in the envelope?"

      Mr. Knowles endeavoured to see what the Duke was holding. It was so minute an object that it was a little difficult to make out exactly what it was,