“Why, your honor, there have been a row on the heights back there, among some gents, and one of um have been shot and carried to the hotel down yonder in the town; and t’other one is took and locked up,” answered one of the laborers, with the usual mixture of truth and falsehood. “Which was shot?” inquired the detective. “Why, that I can’t say; but any ways it was _one_ of um as was shot and brought home on a door, and t’other one was took and locked up.” “Was the man who was shot killed?” anxiously inquired General Lyon. “Well, your honor, ‘when the brains is out the man is dead,’” replied the peasant, unconsciously quoting Shakespeare. General Lyon sank back in his chair with a deep groan. One of the duelists was killed. Whether it was Prince Ernest or Alexander Lyon, whether his nephew was the murderer or the murdered man, the event was fatal. “Drive as rapidly as possible back to the hotel,” said the detective on the box to the driver by his side. And they were whirled swiftly as horses could go, to the St. Aubins hotel. There all was bustle. A duel was not such a common event as to be passed over lightly. General Lyon sprang out of his cab with almost the agility of youth, and hurried into the office to make inquiries of the clerk. “What man was that who was shot?” he shortly asked. “The American, sir; but it is hoped he will do well yet.” “He is not dead?” “No, sir, surely not.” “Thank Heaven for that! And the other one?” “The prince? He was not hurt, sir.” “Thank Heaven for that also!” “They were the parties you were looking for this morning, were they not?” “Certainly. I had ascertained their object in coming here, and hoped to be in time to stop them. Where have they put my nephew?” “Beg pardon, sir?” “The wounded man; where have they put him?” “In his own room, sir.” “Send a waiter to show me to his bedside. I am his uncle.” “Indeed, sir? Certainly, sir. Come here, John. Show this gentleman to Number 10.” A waiter stepped forward at the order, bowed and led the way followed by the General, up one flight of stairs, along a corridor, and to a chamber door. “This is Number 10, sir,” John said, opening the door. The veteran entered the room, and found himself face to face with Francis Tredegar, who had risen to see who the intruder might be. “General Lyon!” “Mr. Tredegar!” Such were the simultaneous exclamations of the friends on so unexpectedly meeting. “You here?” “I came with Lord Killcrichtoun.” “How is he?” “The surgeon reports favorably of his wounds, but he must be kept very quiet. Will you pass with me into the sitting-room?—Simms, do not leave your master’s side until I return.—This way, General,” said Francis Tredegar, rising and opening a door leading into their private parlor. There the friends sat down together,—the General heated and anxious, Francis Tredegar surprised and curious.