"It was. Also the Hun. The gun of small variety; the Hun of large--very large. I don't know which of us was the more surprised--him or me; we just stood gazing at one another. "'Halloa, Englishman,' he said; 'come to leave a card?' "'Quite right, Boche,' I answered. 'A p.p.c. one.' "I was rather pleased with that touch at the time, old son. I was just going to elaborate it, and point out that he--as the dear departing--should really do it, when he was at me. "Bill, my boy, you should have seen that fight. Like a fool, I never saw his revolver lying on the table, and I'd shoved my own back in my holster. He got it in his right hand, and I got his right wrist in my left. We'd each got the other by the throat, and one of us was for the count. We each knew that. At one time I thought he'd got me--we were crashing backwards and forwards, and I caught my head against a wooden pole which nearly stunned me. And, mark you, all the time I was expecting his pal to come back and inquire after his health. Then suddenly I felt him weaken, and I squeezed his throat the harder. It came quite quickly at the end. His pistol-hand collapsed, and I suppose muscular contraction pulled the trigger, for the bullet went through his head, though I think he was dead already." Dick O'Rourke paused, and looked thoughtfully into the fire. "But why in the name of Heaven," I cried, irritably, "have you kept this dark all the while? Why didn't you tell us at the time?" For a while he did not answer, and then he produced his pocket-book. From it he took a photograph, which he handed to me. "Out of that German's pocket I took that photograph." "Well," I said, "what about it? A very pretty girl for a German." Then I looked at it closely. "Why, it was taken in England. Is it an English girl?" "Yes," he answered, dryly, "it is. It's Moyra Kavanagh, whom I proposed to forty-eight hours previously at Ciro's. She refused me, and told me then she was in love with a German. I celebrate the news by coming over here and killing him, in an individual fight where it was man to man." "But," I cried, "good heavens! man--it was you or he." "I know that," he answered, wearily. "What then? He evidently loved her; if not--why the photo. Look at what's written on the back--'From Moyra--with all my love.' All her love. Lord! it's a rum box up." He sighed wearily and slowly replaced it in his case. "So I buried him, and I chucked his gun in a pond, and said nothing about it. If I had it would probably have got into the papers or some such rot, and she'd have wanted to know all about it. Think of it! What the deuce would I have told her? To sympathise and discuss her love affairs with her in London, and then toddle over here and slaughter him. Dash it, man, it's Gilbertian! And, mark you, nothing would induce me to marry her--even if she'd have me--without her knowing."