“Like a top,” lied Dickey, cheerfully. “I was afraid the excitement might have caused you great uneasiness and--ah--dread,” said the prince. The count was industriously engaged in piercing with his glittering eyes the tapestry in a far corner of the room. Mr. Savage possessed the manner of a man who shoots someone every morning before breakfast. “Not in the least; did it, Quentin?” “He slept like a baby.” “By the way, before I forget it, Prince Ugo, how is the gentleman I shot last night--ah, what was his name?” asked Dickey, slapping his leg carelessly with his walking stick. “Prince Kapolski is in the hospital, and I fear he cannot recover,” said the prince. “I came to tell you this that you may act accordingly and with all the haste possible.” “O, I don't know why I should run away. Everybody there will testify that the fight was forced upon me. You will swear to that, yourself, Prince Ugo, and so will the count. I had to fight, you know.” “It seems to me, Mr. Savage, that you were rather eager to fight. I cannot vouch for your safety if the prince dies,” said Ugo, coolly. “But he isn't going to die. I did not shoot to kill and the ball hit him just where I intended it should--on the chin. He'll be well in a couple of weeks. True, he may not feel like eating tough beefsteak with that jaw for some time, but I knew a fellow once who was able to eat very comfortably after six weeks. That was as good a shot as I ever made, Phil,” said Dickey, reflectively. “I think Buckner's nose was a cleaner shot. It wasn't nearly so disgusting,” said Phil. “Do you mean to say you are able to hit a man just where you please?” demanded the count. “Provided he does not hit me first,” said Mr. Savage. “Gentlemen, let me order up a quiet little drink. I am afraid the unfortunate affair of last night has twisted your nerves a bit. It was rather ghastly, wasn't it?” When the four parted company in front of the hotel, a quarter of an hour later, the two Italians sat down to reflect. They wondered whether Mr. Savage usually carried a pistol in his pocket, and they agreed that if he did have one of his own he would be much more accurate with it than with a strange one, such as he had used the night before. The two Americans were not jubilant as they strolled up the street. They had put on a very bold front but they were saying to themselves that Kapolski's death would be a very disastrous calamity. Cold perspiration stood on Dickey's brow and he devoutly prayed that his victim would recover. “I'd feel like a butcher to the last day of my life,” he groaned.