And so it came to pass that by the time the harness had been tied together and the conveyance got without accident as far as the first stable on the outskirts of the town, where it was left with the groom, Barker had received a goodly meed of thanks and praise.  And when Margaret proposed that they should walk as far as the hotel, Barker tried a few steps and found he was too lame for such exercise, his left leg having been badly bruised by the pole of the carriage in his late exploit; which injury elicited a further show of sympathy from Margaret.  And when at last he left her with a cab at the door of her hotel, he protested that he had enjoyed a very delightful drive, and went away in high spirits.  Margaret, in her gratitude for such an escape, and in unfeigned admiration of Barker’s daring and coolness, was certainly inclined to think better of him than she had done for a long time.  Or perhaps it would be truer to say that he was more in her thoughts than he had been; for, in the reign of Claudius, Barker had dwindled to a nearly insignificant speck in the landscape, dwarfed away to nothing by the larger mould and stronger character of the Swede.

Margaret saw the Duke in the evening.  He gave her a document, unsealed, in a huge envelope, bidding her keep it in a safe place, for the use of their mutual friend, in case he should need it.  She said she would give it to Claudius when he came back; and then she told the Duke about her drive with Barker and the accident.  The Duke looked grave.

“Of course,” he said, “I introduced Barker to you, and it would seem very odd if I were to warn you against him now.  All the same, Countess, I have had the honour of being your friend for some time, and I must say I have sometimes regretted that I brought him to your house.”  He reddened a little after he had spoken, fearing she might have misunderstood him.  “I wish,” he added, to make things clearer, “that I could have brought you Claudius without Barker.”  Then he reddened still more, and wished he had said nothing.  Margaret raised her eyebrows.  Perhaps she could have wished as much herself, but she dropped the subject.

“When are you coming back from the West, Duke,” she asked, busying herself in arranging some books on her table.  The hotel sitting-room was so deadly dreary to the eye that she was trying to make it look as if it had not been lately used as a place of burial.

“It may be two months before I am here again.  A—­about the time Claudius comes over, I should think.”

“And when do you go?”

“Next week, I think.”

“I wish you were going to stay,” said Margaret simply, “or Lady Victoria.  I shall be so lonely.”

“You will have Miss Skeat,” suggested his Grace.

“Oh, it’s not that,” said she.  “I shall not be alone altogether, for there is poor Nicholas, you know.  I must take care of him; and then I suppose some of these people will want to amuse me, or entertain me—­not that they are very entertaining; but they mean well.  Besides, my being mixed up in a Nihilist persecution adds to my social value.”  The Duke, however, was not listening, his mind being full of other things—­what there was of it, and his heart had long determined to sympathise with Margaret in her troubles; so there was nothing more to be said.