In a trice his two friends were bending over him, beside the doctor, who was making a rapid examination to find out the extent of the wounded man’s injuries; believing, however, that Raymond Challoner’s opponent was beyond all human aid. He had figured at several of these affairs of honor in which Challoner had been engaged, and had never yet known him to fail to strike the heart at which he aimed. “He brought it on himself,” said Challoner, addressing his second. “He would have it!” and he turned away upon his heel with a mocking sneer curling his cynical lips. Tossing his weapon to his second, he nonchalantly resumed his hat and coat, and walked coolly away toward the hotel, not deigning to cast one glance backward, even to take the trouble to inquire whether his victim was alive, or dead. Both of the fallen man’s friends heard him remark, as a parting shot: “Such is the fate of any one who attempts to meddle in my affairs.” “Your friend is not dead,” said the doctor, hastily, anxious to attract their attention from Challoner, fearing perhaps a double or a triple duel might result from this affair. “He is badly wounded, there is no doubt about that, but in my opinion the wound is not necessarily fatal. I have every hope that we shall be able to pull him through, with this splendid physique to aid us.” The two friends breathed more freely, and Gaines said, slowly: “If he were to die, the man who murdered him would have the opportunity to try his hand next on me.” “And after that on me,” remarked Ballou, “in case he should escape your bullet.” “The first thing to be attended to is to get him away from here,” cut in the doctor, quietly. Adding: “As the hotel is to close within a few short hours, they would not receive him there. I propose removing him at once to a little cottage I know of adjacent to this place, in which lives an old nurse whom I often employ. She will willingly take him in and do her best for him.” The two friends received this suggestion gratefully. Between the three of them, they succeeded in conveying him to the place indicated, without loss of time, and there the doctor made a further examination of his injuries. “Mr. Challoner’s bullet missed its aim by a single hair’s breadth,” he said; “but with Mrs. Brent’s careful nursing, we may hope for much.” It was with the greatest of regret that the two friends left Newport the next day for New York, leaving John Dinsmore, who had not yet regained consciousness, in the hands of the doctor, who was a resident of the place, and the aged nurse. Everything had gone wrong with them; they had been unable, even with the aid of the skillful detective, to find the slightest trace of the man for whom they were looking, and concluded that he had left the resort ere they had reached it, having been informed in advance in some mysterious manner of their coming.