“I suppose you do,” said the Duke, tolerably satisfied.  “Now then, who sent you here?”

“No one sent me,” answered Screw with some pride.  “I am not in the habit of being sent, as you call it.  It was in the course of a conversation I had with Mr. Barker, the other day—­”

“I thought so,” interrupted the Englishman.  “I thought Mr. Barker was at the bottom of it.  Will you please to deliver a message to Mr. Barker, with my compliments?” Screw nodded solemnly, as under protest.

“Then be kind enough to tell him from me that he is a most infernal blackguard.  That if he attempts to carry this abominable plot any further I will post him at every one of his clubs as a liar and a cheat, and—­and that he had better keep out of my way.  As for you, sir, I would advise you to look into his character, for I perceive that you are an honest man.”

“I am obliged to you, sir,” said Mr. Screw, with something of a sneer.  “But who are you, pray, that ventures to call my clients by such ugly names?”

“There is my card—­you can see for yourself,” said the Duke.  Screw read it.  His anger was well roused by this time.

“We have small respect for titles in this country, my Lord Duke,” said he stiffly.  “The best thing I can say is what you said to me, that you impress me as being an honest man.  Nevertheless you may be mistaken.”

“That is a matter which will be decided the day after to-morrow,” said the other.  “Meanwhile, in pursuance of what I said, I thank you very sincerely indeed”—­Mr. Screw smiled grimly—­“no, I am in earnest, I really thank you, on behalf of the Countess Margaret, for the honourable part you have endeavoured to perform towards her; and I beg your pardon for having mistaken you, and supposed you were in the plot.  But give my message to Mr. Barker—­it is actionable, of course, and he may take action upon it, if he likes.  Good-morning, sir.”

“Good-morning,” said Screw shortly, somewhat pacified by the Duke’s frank apology.

“I think I settled him,” said the peer to Margaret, as they got into the cab that was to drive them to the Park.  And they cantered away in royal spirits.

CHAPTER XX.

Whatever reason may say, whatever certainty we may feel, the last hours of waiting for an ocean steamer are anxious ones.  The people at the office may assure us twenty times that they feel “no anxiety whatever”—­that is their stock phrase; our friends who have crossed the ocean twice a year for a score of years may tell us that any vessel may be a few hours, nay, a few days, behind her reckoning; it may seem madness to entertain the least shadow of a doubt—­and yet, until the feet we love are on the wharf and the dear glad hands in ours, the shadow of an awful possibility is over us, the dreadful consciousness of the capacity of the sea.