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 offer me the bank I couldn't tell you."
"Was it a man?"
Mr. Dacre's drawl became still more pronounced.
"I rather fancy that it was."
Mr. Dacre expected something. The duke was so excited. But he by no means
expected what actually came.
"Ivor, she's been kidnaped!"
Mr. Dacre did what he had never been known to do before within the memory
of man--he dropped his eyeglass.
"Datchet!"
"She has! Some scoundrel has decoyed her away, and trapped her. He's
already sent me a lock of her hair, and he tells me that if I don't let
him have five hundred pounds in gold by half-past five he'll let me have
her little finger."
Mr. Dacre did not know what to make of his grace at all. He was a sober
man--it _couldn't_ be that! Mr. Dacre felt really concerned.
"I'll call a cab, old man, and you'd better let me see you home."
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."
"Who is the gentleman you expect to have the pleasure of meeting there?"
"How should I know?" The duke took a letter from his pocket--it was the
letter which had just arrived. "The fellow is to wear a white top hat, and
a gardenia in his buttonhole."
"What is it you have there?"
"It's the letter which brought the news--look for yourself and see; but,
for God's sake, make haste!" His grace glanced at his watch. "It's already
twenty after five."
"And do you mean to say that on the strength of a letter such as this you
are going to hand over five hundred pounds to--"
The duke cut Mr. Dacre short.
"What are five hundred pounds to me? Besides, you don't know all. There is
another letter. And I have heard from Mabel. But I will tell you all about
it later. If you are coming, come!"
Folding up the letter, Mr. Dacre returned it to the duke.
"As you say, what are five hundred pounds to you? It's as well they are
not as much to you as they are to me, or I'm afraid--"
"Hang it, Ivor, do prose afterwards!"
The duke hurried across the road. Mr. Dacre hastened after him. As they
entered the Arcade they passed a constable. Mr. Dacre touched his
companion's arm.
"Don't you think we'd better ask our friend in blue to walk behind us? His
neighborhood might be handy."
"Nonsense!" The duke stopped short. "Ivor, this is my affair, not yours.
If you are not content to play the part of silent witness, be so good as
to leave me."
"My dear Datchet, I'm entirely at your service. I can be every whit as
insane as you, I do assure you."
Side by side they moved rapidly down the Burlington Arcade. The duke was
obviously in a state of the extremest nervous tension. Mr. Dacre was
equally obviously in a state of the most supreme enjoyment. People stared
as they rushed past. The duke saw nothing. Mr. Dacre saw everything, and
smiled.
When they reached the Piccadilly end of the Arcade the duke pulled up. He
looked about him. Mr. Dacre also looked about him.
"I see nothing of your white-hatted and gardenia-buttonholed friend," said
Ivor.
The duke referred to his watch.
"It's not yet half-past five. I'm up to time."
Mr. Dacre held his stick in front of him and leaned on it. He indulged
himself with a beatific smile.
"It strikes me, my dear Datchet, that you've been the victim of one of the
finest things in hoaxes--"
"I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
The voice which interrupted Mr. Dacre came from the rear. While they were
looking in front of them some one approached them from behind, apparently
coming out of the shop which was at their backs.
The speaker looked a gentleman. He sounded like one, too. Costume,
appearance, manner, were beyond reproach--even beyond the criticism of
two such keen critics as were these. The glorious attire of a London dandy
was surmounted with a beautiful white top hat. In his buttonhole was a
magnificent gardenia.
In age the stranger was scarcely more than a boy, and a sunny-faced,
handsome boy at that. His cheeks were hairless, his eyes were blue. His
smile was not only innocent, it was bland. Never was there a more
conspicuous illustration of that repose which stamps the caste of Vere de
Vere.
The duke looked at him and glowered. Mr. Dacre looked at him and smiled.
"Who are you?" asked the duke.
"Ah--that is the question!" The newcomer's refined and musical voice
breathed the very soul of affability. "I am an individual who is so
unfortunate as to be in want of five hundred pounds."
"Are you the scoundrel who sent me that infamous letter?"
The charming stranger never turned a hair.
"I am the scoundrel mentioned in that infamous letter who wants to accost
you at the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade before half-past
five--as witness my white hat and my gardenia."
"Where's my wife?"
The stranger gently swung his stick in front of him with his two hands. He
regarded the duke as a merry-hearted son might regard his father. The
thing was beautiful!
"Her grace will be home almost as soon as you are--when you have given me
the money which I perceive you have all ready for me in that scarcely
elegant-looking canvas bag." He shrugged his shoulders quite gracefully.
"Unfortunately, in these matters one has no choice--one is forced to ask
for gold."
"And suppose, instead of giving you what is in this canvas bag, I take you
by the throat and choke the life right out of you?"
"Or suppose," amended Mr. Dacre, "that you do better, and commend this
gentleman to the tender mercies of the first policeman we encounter."
The stranger turned to Mr. Dacre. He condescended to become conscious of
his presence.
"Is this gentleman your grace's friend? Ah--Mr. Dacre, I perceive! I have
the honor of knowing Mr. Dacre, though, possibly, I am unknown to him."
"You were--until this moment."
With an airy little laugh the stranger returned to the duke. He brushed an
invisible speck of dust off the sleeve of his coat.
"As has been intimated in that infamous letter, his grace is at perfect
liberty to give me into custody--why not? Only"--he said it with his
boyish smile--"if a particular communication is not received from me in
certain quarters within a certain time the Duchess of Datchet's beautiful
white arm will be hacked off at the shoulder."
"You hound!"
The duke would have taken the stranger by the throat, and have done his
best to choke the life right out of him then and there, if Mr. Dacre had
not intervened.
"Steady, old man!" Mr. Dacre turned to the stranger. "You appear to be a
pretty sort of a scoundrel."
The stranger gave his shoulders that almost imperceptible shrug.
"Oh, my dear Dacre, I am in want of money! I believe that you sometimes
are in want of money, too."
Everybody knows that nobody knows where Ivor Dacre gets his money from, so
the allusion must have tickled him immensely.
"You're a cool hand," he said.
"Some men are born that way."
"So I should imagine. Men like you must be born, not made."
"Precisely--as you say!" The stranger turned, with his graceful smile, to
the duke: "But are we not wasting precious time? I can assure your grace
that, in this particular matter, moments are of value."
Mr. Dacre interposed before the duke could answer.
"If you take my strongly urged advice, Datchet, you will summon this
constable who is now coming down the Arcade, and hand this gentleman over
to his keeping. I do not think that you need fear that the duchess will
lose her arm, or even her little finger. Scoundrels of this one's kidney
are most amenable to reason when they have handcuffs on their wrists."
The duke plainly hesitated. He would--and he would not. The stranger, as
he eyed him, seemed much amused.
"My dear duke, by all means act on Mr. Dacre's valuable suggestion. As I
said before, why not? It would at least be interesting to see if the
duchess does or does not lose her arm--almost as interesting to you as to
Mr. Dacre. Those blackmailing, kidnaping scoundrels do use such empty
menaces. Besides, you would have the pleasure of seeing me locked up. My
imprisonment for life would recompense you even for the loss of her
grace's arm. And five hundred pounds is such a sum to have to pay--merely
for a wife! Why not, therefore, act on Mr. Dacre's suggestion? Here comes
the constable." The constable referred to was advancing toward them--he
was not a dozen yards away. "Let me beckon to him--I will with pleasure."
He took out his watch--a gold chronograph repeater. "There are scarcely
ten minutes left during which it will be possible for me to send the
communication which I spoke of, so that it may arrive in time. As it will
then be too late, and the instruments are already prepared for the little
operation which her grace is eagerly anticipating, it would, perhaps, be
as well, after all, that you should give me into charge. You would have
saved your five hundred pounds, and you would, at any rate, have something
in exchange for her grace's mutilated limb. Ah, here is the constable!
Officer!"
The stranger spoke with such a pleasant little air of easy geniality that
it was impossible to tell if he were in jest or in earnest. This fact
impressed the duke much more than if he had gone in for a liberal
indulgence of the--under the circumstances--orthodox melodramatic
scowling. And, indeed, in the face of his own common sense, it impressed
Mr. Ivor Dacre too.
This well-bred, well-groomed youth was just the being to realize--_aux
bouts des ongles_--a modern type of the devil, the type which depicts him
as a perfect gentleman, who keeps smiling all the time.
The constable whom this audacious rogue had signaled approached the little
group. He addressed the stranger:
"Do you want me, sir?"
"No, I do not want you. I think it is the Duke of Datchet."
The constable, who knew the duke very well by sight, saluted him as he
turned to receive instructions.
The duke looked white, even savage. There was not a pleasant look in his
eyes and about his lips. He appeared to be endeavoring to put a great
restraint upon himself. There was a momentary silence. Mr. Dacre made a
movement as if to interpose. The duke caught him by the arm.