Osmond was in the act of lifting a glass of brandy-and-seltzer to his lips as Lionel spoke. He waited, without drinking, till Lionel had done. “You called me a liar, did you?” he said. “Then, take that!” and as he spoke, he flung the remaining contents of the glass into Lionel’s face, and sent the glass itself crashing to the other side of the room. Another instant and Dering’s terrible fingers were closed round Osmond’s throat. This last insult was more than he could bear. His self-control was flung to the winds. Osmond’s nerveless frame quivered and shook helplessly in the strong man’s grasp. He was as powerless to help himself as any child would have been. His eyes were starting from his head, and his face beginning to turn livid, when Kester started forward. “Don’t choke him, Li,” he said. “Don’t kill the beggar quite.” “You mean, contemptible hound!” said Dering, as he loosened his grasp and flung Osmond away: who staggered and fell to the ground, gasping for breath, and hardly knowing for the moment what had befallen him. With a few wild gasps and a tug or two at his cravat, he seemed to partially recover himself. Raising himself on his left elbow, he put his right hand deep down inside his waistcoat, and from some secret pocket there he drew out what looked like a toy pistol, but which was a deadly weapon enough in competent hands. Before either Kester or Lionel knew what he was about, he had taken pointblank aim at the latter, and fired. But drink had made his hand unsteady, and the bullet intended for Lionel’s brain passed harmlessly through his hair, and lodged in the panelling behind. Kester sprang at him, wrenched the pistol from his hand, and flung it to the other end of the room. As he did so, the thought passed through his mind: “If that bullet had only been aimed two inches lower, what a difference it would have made to me!” “Osmond, are you going to turn assassin?” he said. “You must come with me.” He helped him up from the ground, took his right arm firmly within his, and led him towards the door. “That is the way we serve those who insult us out in the West,” said Osmond. “Only: for once, I missed my aim. But I’ll fight it out with him to-morrow, anyhow he likes.” “To-morrow we will settle our little differences as gentlemen of honour should settle such things,” said Kester, soothingly. And with these words he led him from the room. Lionel sank back on a chair, sick, weary, and disgusted; and so sat without moving till Kester came back, some ten minutes later. “What have you done with Osmond?” he said. “I have given him in charge of my man, who won’t leave him till he has seen him safely in bed. He would insist on having more brandy. In ten minutes he will be sleeping the sleep of the drunken.” Lionel rose with a look of pain, and pressed one hand to the side of his head. “Got one of your bad head aches?” asked Kester. “Yes: about the worst that I ever remember to have had.” “Is their no cure for them?”