The Viscountess eyed him cunningly, her head on one side.  ’Was it at Salisbury, then?’ she cried.  ’Wherever ’twas.  I hear she had need of haste.  Or was it at Bristol?  D’you hear me speak to you, man?’ she continued impatiently.  ‘Out with it.’

‘At neither,’ he cried.

My lady’s eyes sparkled with rage.  ‘Hoity-toity!’ she answered.  ’D’you say No to me in that fashion?  I’ll thank you to mend your manners, Fishwick, and remember to whom you are speaking.  Hark ye, sirrah, is she Sir George’s cousin or is she not?’

‘She is not, my lady,’ the attorney muttered miserably.

‘But she is married?’

‘No,’ he said; and with that, unable to bear more, he turned to fly.

She caught him by the sleeve.  ‘Not married?’ she cried, grinning with ill-natured glee.  ’Not married?  And been of three days with a man!  Lord, ’tis a story as bald as Granby!  She ought to be whipped, the hussy!  Do you hear?  She ought to the Roundhouse, and you with her, sirrah, for passing her of on us!’

But that was more than the attorney, his awe of the peerage notwithstanding, could put up with.  ‘God forgive you!’ he cried.  ’God forgive you, ma’am, your hard heart!’

She was astonished.  ‘You impudent fellow!’ she exclaimed.  ’What do you know of God?  And how dare you name Him in the same breath with me?  D’you think He’d have people of quality be Methodists and live as the like of you?  God, indeed!  Hang your impudence!  I say, she should to the Roundhouse—­and you, too, for a vagabond!  And so you shall!’

The lawyer shook with rage.  ’The less your ladyship talks of the Roundhouse,’ he answered, his voice trembling, ’the better!  There’s one is in it now who may go farther and fare worse—­to your sorrow, my lady!’

You rogue!’ she cried.  ‘Do you threaten me?’

‘I threaten no one,’ he answered.  ’But your son, Mr. Dunborough, killed a man last night, and lies in custody at Chippenham at this very time!  I say no more, my lady!’

He had said enough.  My lady glared; then began to shake in her turn.  Yet her spirit was not easily quelled; ‘You lie!’ she cried shrilly, the stick, with which she vainly strove to steady herself, rattling on the floor.’  Who dares to say that my son has killed a man?’

‘It is known,’ the attorney answered.

‘Who—­who is it?’

‘Mr. Pomeroy of Bastwick, a gentleman living near Calne.’

’In a duel!  ‘Twas in a duel, you lying fool!’ she retorted hoarsely.  ’You are trying to scare me!  Say ’twas in a duel and I—­I’ll forgive you.’

‘They shut themselves up in a room, and there were no seconds,’ the lawyer answered, beginning to pity her.  ’I believe that Mr. Pomeroy gave the provocation, and that may bring your ladyship’s son off.  But, on the other hand—­’

‘On the other hand, what?  What?’ she muttered.

‘Mr. Dunborough had horsewhipped a man that was in the other’s company.’