“I do, Hector! ’Tis an ill thing to have an enemy, but if that enemy be a woman, young, beautiful, of high estate and very wealthy—the situation becomes desperate.” “A wumman!” repeated Sir Hector, rasping thumb and finger across bony chin. “You mean ‘the Barrasdaile,’ of course, John?” “Aye, the Lady Herminia Barrasdaile.” “To be sure I mind weel how she raved and vowed vengeance on ye, lad, the night Charles Tremayne was killed——” “Poor, reckless Charles ... I can see him now, Hector, as he laughed ... and died——” “Tush, laddie, forget it! ’Twas he drew first, and himsel’ no better than——” “He is dead, Hector! Sometimes I’ve thought you had been wiser, kinder, to have let me die also, rather than ha’ dragged me back to this emptiness we call ‘life’——” “Emptiness, laddie? Hoot-toot—and yersel’ the joy o’ the leddies, the envy o’ the men! ‘The glass o’ fashion an’ mould o’ form,’ wi’ every young sprig o’ gallantry to copy the cut o’ your waistcoats? And you think, John, you think that my Lady Barrasdaile is actually carrying her threat into execution?” “Well, these last few years, Hector, have proved singularly eventful to me one way or another. I have been involved so often in so many unsavoury affairs and had so many duels forced upon me that my reputation is grown a little threadbare, as you know, and myself notorious.” “And now it seems you’ve another duel on your hands.” “A duel, Hector? Egad, and have I so? With whom, pray? “Losh, man, you should ken that weel enough.” “Hum!” quoth Sir John, pondering. “I caught but a snatch of idle gossip concerning you, John, and some English Viscount or other——” “An Englishman, Hector, mark that! Ha,” mused Sir John, “I have a vague recollection of throwing somebody’s hat out of some window some time or other—but whose hat, or what window, or when, I cannot recall for the life o’ me. We must look into this, Hector. Let us summon the Corporal and hear what the perspicacious Robert hath to say.” “What, Corporal Bob? He’s still with you, then, John lad?” “To be sure, Hector,” answered Sir John, ringing the small silver bell at his elbow. “He is my major-domo, my valet, my general factotum, and will never be anything but a grenadier to the day of his death. Here he is!” At this moment was a short, sharp double knock and the door opened to admit a very square-shouldered, sharp-eyed man extremely precise as to clothes, speech and gesture, who, beholding Sir Hector’s stalwart figure, halted suddenly, whipped up right hand as if to touch neat wig but, thinking better of it, bowed instead and immediately stood at attention. “Stiff and straight as though on parade, Hector!” murmured Sir John, whereupon the Corporal flushed and immediately “stood easy.”