“I call all to witness,” screamed the major, panting and struggling in the arms of two who had seized him, “that I accepted my lord’s stake, but not his infernal insult. I have won the right of protection over an outraged lady, and I now call upon him to answer for his brutal abuse of her name in public”--and, despite his captors, he whipped up a glass of wine from the table, and dashed it at the stupid face of the lordling, who still sat, sullenly defiant of the spirit he had evoked. The glass cut his forehead and half-stunned him for the moment. “Mr. Jephson,” cried the soldier, glaring round, and selecting one from the excited group about him--“you will do me the service to ac----” The word snapped in his teeth like a pipe-stem. With a groan he sank upon the ground, and his face was purple from ear to ear. An instant’s silence followed, then babble of voices and the pressing inward of the spectators around the fallen man. Lord Dunlone sat mopping his red forehead in foolish vacancy; and Sir Robert Linne strode over to Mr. Ladislaw, who had been helped to his feet and stood apart and alone. “I took full licence for a ruined man,” said the baronet; “and am prepared to give the fullest satisfaction.” The injured one almost whimpered. “That is the devil of _luck_,” he said hysterically. “You force a quarrel on me, and deprive me of the fruits of it.” “Oh, sir! Not necessarily.” “You know I’m damned bad at shot and thrust.” The loser smiled wickedly. The only stealthy witness of the little scene was the short-sighted man. “You desire to compound the insult, then?” said Sir Robert. “Oh! surely, sir, with your kind permission.” The other laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and turned away. Mr. Ladislaw took a forward step and ventured timidly: “You exaggerated, I trust, when you spoke of yourself as ruined?” “Do you question my statement, sir?” He flapped round with a mockery of fierceness. The little man fell back, scared. “Oh, dear me, no!” he cried. Sir Robert laughed again, shot a contemptuous look at the group by the table, and went quietly from the room. In the Club-hall he came to a momentary pause. “The fellow should have fought,” he muttered. “I would have made myself a broad target to him.” Then he sighed. “But there’s a shorter cut.” CHAPTER II. Sir Robert Linne, as he left the club, had no thought but to sever the tangle of things by cutting his own throat. He intended to do this agreeably and decently, and to step off the world into chaos with as little inconvenience to himself and to others as was compatible with the severity of the deed. After considerable reflection, the plan that suggested itself to him was to proceed to some riverside station, hire a wherry, work his way down stream an indefinite distance; and then, sitting on the thwarts, neatly and philosophically put a weight in his pocket and a bullet in his head, and so overboard.