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“That is well,” the Duke retorted, “You may go, Benyon.” And when the door had closed, he began, incuriously: “Then you are not a murderess at least, Miss Allonby. At least–” He made a queer noise as he gazed, at the despatch-box in his hand. “The brown box!” It fell to the floor. Ormskirk drew near to her, staring, moving stiffly like a hinged toy, “I must have the truth,” he said, without a trace of any human passion. This was the Ormskirk men had known in Scotland.

“Yes,” she answered, “they were the Jacobite papers. You burned them.”

“I!” said the Duke.

Presently he said: “Do you not understand what this farce has cost? Thanks to you, I have no iota of proof against these men. I cannot touch these rebels. O madam, I pray Heaven that you have not by this night’s trickery destroyed England!”

“I did it to save the man I love,” she proudly said.

“I had promised you his life.”

“But would you have kept that promise?”

“No,” he answered, simply.

“Then are we quits, my Lord. You lied to me, and I to you. Oh, I know that were I a man you would kill me within the moment. But you respect my womanhood. Ah, goodness!” the girl cried, shrilly, “what very edifying respect for womanhood have you, who burned those papers because you believed my dearest Marian had stooped to a painted mountebank!”

“I burned them–yes, in the belief that I was saving you.”

She laughed in his face. “You never believed that,–not for an instant.”

But by this time Ormskirk had regained his composure. “The hour is somewhat late, and the discussion–if you will pardon the suggestion,–not likely to be profitable. The upshot of the whole matter is that I am now powerless to harm anybody–I submit the simile of the fangless snake,–and that Captain Audaine will have his release in the morning. Accordingly you will now permit me to wish you a pleasant night’s rest. Benyon!” he called, “you will escort Mr. Osric Allonby homeward. I remain to clear up this affair.”

He held open the door for her, and, bowing, stood aside that she might pass.

VIII

But afterward the great Duke of Ormskirk continued for a long while motionless and faintly smiling as he gazed into the fire. Tricked and ignominiously defeated! Ay, but that was a trifle now, scarcely worthy of consideration. The girl had hoodwinked him, had lied more skilfully than he, yet in the fact that she had lied he found a prodigal atonement. Whigs and Jacobites might have their uses in the cosmic scheme, he reflected, as house-flies have, but what really mattered was that at Halvergate yonder Marian awaited his coming. And in place of statecraft he fell to thinking of two hazel eyes and of abundant hair the color of a dead oak-leaf.