It,
too, emitted what his grace deemed the nauseous odors 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.
"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?"
Mr. Knowles was silent. He still yielded to his constitutional disrelish
to commit himself. At last he asked:
"What is it that your grace proposes to do?"
The duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested a personal
animosity toward the inoffensive Mr. Knowles.
"I propose, with your permission, to release the duchess from the custody
of my estimable correspondent. I propose--always with your permission--to
comply with his modest request, and to take him his five hundred pounds in
gold.
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