“If I only knew what?”

The Duchess pulled at the hair of the little spitz on her lap without replying.

“What is there to know that I don’t know?” insisted the Duke.  “Something that makes the matter still worse, I suppose?”

“Well, that depends,” said the Duchess, reflectively.  A gleam of mischief had slipped into her face, though for a moment the tears had not been far off.

The Duke looked at his watch.

“Don’t keep me here guessing riddles longer than you can help,” he said, impatiently.  “I have an appointment in the City at twelve, and I want to discuss with you the letter that must be written to Lady Henry.”

“That’s your affair,” said the Duchess.  “I haven’t made up my mind yet whether I mean to write at all.  And as for the riddle, Freddie, you’ve seen Miss Le Breton?”

“Once.  I thought her a very pretentious person,” said the Duke, stiffly.

“I know—­you didn’t get on.  But, Freddie, didn’t she remind you of somebody?”

The Duchess was growing excited.  Suddenly she jumped up; the little spitz rolled off her lap; she ran to her husband and took him by the fronts of his coat.

“Freddie, you’ll be very much astonished.”  And suddenly releasing him, she began to search among the photographs on the mantel-piece.  “Freddie, you know who that is?” She held up a picture.

“Of course I know.  What on earth has that got to do with the subject we have been discussing?”

“Well, it has a good deal to do with it,” said the Duchess, slowly.  “That’s my uncle, George Chantrey, isn’t it, Lord Lackington’s second son, who married mamma’s sister?  Well—­oh, you won’t like it, Freddie, but you’ve got to know—­that’s—­Julie’s uncle, too!”

“What in the name of fortune do you mean?” said the Duke, staring at her.

His wife again caught him by the coat, and, so imprisoning him, she poured out her story very fast, very incoherently, and with a very evident uncertainty as to what its effect might be.

And indeed the effect was by no means easy to determine.  The Duke was first incredulous, then bewildered by the very mixed facts which she poured out upon him.  He tried to cross-examine her en route, but he gained little by that; she only shook him a little, insisting the more vehemently on telling the story her own way.  At last their two impatiences had nearly come to a dead-lock.  But the Duke managed to free himself physically, and so regained a little freedom of mind.

“Well, upon my word,” he said, as he resumed his march up and down—­“upon my word!” Then, as he stood still before her, “You say she is Marriott Dalrymple’s daughter?”

“And Lord Lackington’s granddaughter.” said the Duchess, panting a little from her exertions.  “And, oh, what a blind bat you were not to see it at once—­from the likeness!”