“But you have more reason to fear him than I, Dorothy.”

“Hush!” she whispered, catching her breath; “what are you saying?”

“That he has more cause to fear me than I to dread him.”

She came a little closer.

“You stayed in London for me, Richard.  Why did you?  There was no need,” she exclaimed; “there was no need, do you hear?  Oh, I shall never forgive Comyn for his meddling!  I am sure ’twas he who told you some ridiculous story.  He had no foundation for it.”

“Dorothy,” I demanded, my voice shaking with earnestness, “will you tell me honestly there is no foundation for the report that the duke is intriguing to marry you?”

That question was not answered, and regret came the instant it had left my lips—­regret and conviction both.  Dorothy joined Lady Carlisle before our absence had been noted, and began to banter Fitzpatrick upon his losings.

We were in the lighted Grove again, and sitting down to a supper of Vauxhall fare:  transparent slices of ham (which had been a Vauxhall joke for ages), and chickens and cheese cakes and champagne and claret, and arrack punch.  Mr. Tyers extended the concert in our favour.  Mrs. Weichsell and the beautiful Baddeley trilled sentimental ballads which our ladies chose; and Mr. Vernon, the celebrated tenor, sang Cupid’s Recruiting Sergeant so happily that Storer sent him a bottle of champagne.  After which we amused ourselves with catches until the space between our boxes and the orchestra was filled.  In the midst of this Comyn came quietly in from the other box and took a seat beside me.

“Chartersea is here to-night,” said he.

I started.  “How do you know?”

“Tyers told me he turned up half an hour since.  Tom asked his Grace to join our party,” his Lordship laughed.  “Duke said no—­he was to be here only half an hour, and Tom did not push him.  He told me as a joke, and thinks Chartersea came to meet some petite.”

“Any one with him?” I asked.

“Yes.  Tall, dark man, one eye cast,—­that’s Lewis.  They have come on some dirty work, Richard.  Watch little Marmaduke.  He has been fidgety as a cat all night.”

“That’s true,” said I. Looking up, I caught Dorothy’s eyes upon us, her lips parted, uneasiness and apprehension plain upon her face.  Comyn dropped his voice still lower.

“I believe she suspects something,” he said, rising.  “Chartersea is gone off toward the Wilderness, so Tom says.  You must not let little Marmaduke see him.  If Manners gets up to go, I will tune up Black-eked Susan, and do you follow on some pretext.  If you are not back in a reasonable time, I’ll after you.”

He had been gone scant three minutes before I heard his clear voice singing, “in the Downs”, and up I got, with a precipitation far from politic, and stepped out of the box.  Our company stared in surprise.  But Dorothy rose clear from her chair.  The terror I saw stamped upon her face haunts me yet, and I heard her call my name.