"And, of course, she will scorn you for an impudent impostor?"
Now at this Barnabas flinched, for these were Chichester's own words, and they bore a double sting.
"And yet—I must tell her!" he groaned.
"And afterwards, where shall you go?"
"Anywhere," he sighed, with a hopeless gesture.
"And—the race?"
"Will be run without me."
"And your friends—the Marquis, Viscount Devenham, and the rest?"
"Will, I expect, turn their gentlemanly backs upon me—as you yourself have done. So, madam, I thank you for your past kindness, and bid you—good-by"
"Stop, sir!"
"Of what avail, madam?" sighed Barnabas, turning away.
"Come back—I command you!"
"I am beneath your Grace's commands, henceforth," said Barnabas, and plodded on down the road.
"Then I—beg of you!"
"Why?" he inquired, pausing.
"Because—oh, because you are running off with my precious needlework, of course. In your pocket, sir,—the left one!" So, perforce, Barnabas came back, and standing again beneath the finger-post, gave the Duchess her very small piece of embroidery. But, behold! his hand was caught and held between two others, which, though very fragile, were very imperious.
"Barnabas," said the Duchess very softly, "oh, dear me, I'm glad you told me, oh very! I hoped you would!"
"Hoped? Why—why, madam, you—then you knew?"
"All about it, of course! Oh, you needn't stare—it wasn't witchcraft,
it was this letter—read it." And taking a letter from her reticule,
she gave it to Barnabas, and watched him while he read:
TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF CAMBERHURST.
MADAM,—In justice to yourself I take occasion to warn your Grace against the person calling himself Barnabas Beverley. He is, in reality, an impudent impostor of humble birth and mean extraction. His real name and condition I will prove absolutely to your Grace at another time.
Your Grace's most humble obedt.
WILFRED CHICHESTER.
"So you see I'm not a witch, sir,—oh no, I'm only an old woman, with, among many other useful gifts, a very sharp eye for faces, a remarkable genius for asking questions, and the feminine capacity for adding two and two together and making them—eight. So, upon reading this letter, I made inquiries on my own account with the result that yesterday I drove over to a certain inn called the 'Coursing Hound,' and talked with your father. Very handsome he is too—as he always was, and I saw him in the hey-day of his fame, remember. Well, I sipped his ale,—very good ale I found it, and while I sipped, we talked. He is very proud of his son, it seems, and he even showed me a letter this son had written him from the 'George' inn at Southwark. Ha! Joan Beverley was to have married an ugly old wretch of a marquis, and John Barty is handsome still. But an inn-keeper, hum!"
"So—that was why my mother ran away, madam?"
"And Wilfred Chichester knows of this, and will tell Cleone, of course!"
"I think not—at least not yet," answered Barnabas thoughtfully,— "you see, he is using this knowledge as a weapon against me."
"Why?"
"I promised to help Ronald Barrymaine—"
"That wretched boy! Well?"
"And the only way to do so was to remove him from Chichester's influence altogether. So I warned Mr. Chichester that unless he forswore Barrymaine's society, I would, as Joan Beverley's son and heir to the Beverley heritage, prove my claim and dispossess him."
"You actually threatened Wilfred Chichester with this, and forgot that in finding you your mother's son, he would prove you to be your father's also?"
"Yes, I—I only remembered my promise."
"The one you gave Cleone, which she had no right to exact—as I told her—"
"But, madam—"
"Oh, she confessed to me all about it, and how you had tried to pay Ronald's debts for him out of your own pocket,—which was very magnificent but quite absurd."
"Yes," sighed Barnabas, "so now I am determined to free him from
Chichester first—"
"By dispossessing Chichester?"
"Yes, madam."
