Marston was in the act of raising a tankard to his lips; but save that his face turned a shade paler, and his hand trembled so that a few drops of the wine were spilled upon the cloth, he betrayed none of the disappointment which my cousin had fondly anticipated. He looked at us steadily for a second, and then drained the tankard. His companion--a Mr. Cuthbert Cliffe, with whom both Elmscott and myself were acquainted--rose from his seat and welcomed us heartily. It was evident that he was in the dark as to the object of our journey. We seated ourselves opposite them on the other side of the table. Elmscott was somewhat dashed by the prosaic nature of the reception, and seemed at a loss how to broach the subject of the duel, when Marston suddenly hissed at me: "How the devil came you here?" "On a magic carpet," replied Elmscott smoothly. "Like the Arabian, we came upon a magic carpet." Marston rose from the table and walked to the fireplace, where he stood kicking the logs with the toe of his boot, and laughing to himself in a short, affected way, as men are used who seek to cover up a mortification. Then he turned again to me. "Very well," he said, with a nod, "and the sooner the better. If Lord Elmscott and Mr. Cliffe will arrange the details, I am entirely at your service." With that he set his hat carelessly on his head, and sauntered out of the room. Mr. Cliffe looked at me in surprise. "It is an old-standing quarrel between Mr. Buckler and your friend," Elmscott explained, "but certain matters, of which we need not speak, have brought it to a head. Your friend would fain have deferred the settlement for another week, but Mr. Buckler's engagements forbade the delay." So far he had got when a suspicion flashed into my head. Leaving Elmscott to arrange the encounter with Mr. Cliffe, I hurried down the passage and out on to the road. On neither side was Marston to be seen, but I perceived that the stable door stood open. I looked quickly to the priming of my pistol--for, knowing that the Great West Road was infested by footpads and highwaymen, we had armed ourselves with some care before leaving London--and took my station in the middle of the way. Another minute and I should have been too late; for Marston dashed out of the stable door, already mounted upon his horse. He drove his spurs into its flanks, and rode straight at me. I had just time to leap on one side. His riding-whip slashed across my face, I heard him laugh with a triumphant mockery, and then I fired. The horse bounded into the air with a scream of pain, sank on its haunches, and rolled over on its side. The noise of the shot brought our seconds to the door.