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. But, if that were so, he did not act quite up to
his intention. Instead, he stretched out his arm, pointing at them as if
he were an accusing spirit:
"Will you swear that it was the duchess who got into the carriage outside
Cane and Wilson's?"
Barnes began to stammer:
"I'll swear, your grace, that I--I thought--"
The duke stormed an interruption:
"I don't ask what you thought. I ask you, will you swear it was?"
The duke's anger was more than Barnes could face. He was silent. Moysey
showed a larger courage.
"I could have sworn that it was at the time, your grace. But now it seems
to me that it's a rummy go."
"A rummy go!" The peculiarity of the phrase did not seem to strike the
duke just then--at least, he echoed it as if it didn't.
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