Blanche’s eyes sought his face with quick interrogation. “Cardy!” she exclaimed. “You’re not serious? You don’t really mean to——?” “Of course I am serious.” “But—you can’t—you mustn’t!” “I can and will. There is no going back now. Please.” But she barred his way. “No—no—no! I forbid you.” “Please.” “Oh, but you’re joking—joking! You couldn’t shoot him—not for that. Besides, you wouldn’t know which end of the pistol to hold.” A man who is playing a part senior to his years will generally give himself away on a detail. It was sheer youthful arrogance when he drew from his pocket the target he had decorated that afternoon, and cast it on the table before her. “I did this at fifteen paces,” he said. The message of the target was plain, and Blanche needed no second glance. She flung herself at her lover’s feet, and besought him to spare the life of Harrington May. “It—it wasn’t all his fault,” she sobbed. “I did egg him on a bit, just—just to stir you up.” For a moment he was silent, and his face was ominously stern. “You achieved your object,” he replied at last. “We must talk more of this later, Blanche. For the rest, you need not be alarmed. I shall not kill this man, and you are free to take what is left of him, when I have finished.” Thrusting her aside, he picked up the case of pistols and hurried away. “Oh, God!” cried Blanche, and there was admiration as well as fear in her voice. It was rather wonderful that he would risk death for her sake—but of course it must not happen. She must go at once and warn Harrington May of the danger. Then came the thought, “Suppose he, too, insists on fighting?” Her eyes glittered. This drama that centred about her was fantastic, thrilling. If he, too, were determined to enter the lists, where would her choice lie? The corridors were deserted, for the company had dressed hurriedly and were well away towards the sheltering bushes of Jesmond Dene. As she hastened towards May’s room she could hear Eliphalet Cardomay’s fly rattling over the cobbles of the street below. “Hulloa!” exclaimed May. “Not gone to the party? Better come in my cab. Pity to miss the fun.” “It isn’t fun,” she cried. “He’s in deadly, awful earnest. He’s going to shoot you.” The leading man licked his lips and smiled queerly. “You can’t bounce me,” he said. “I swear it. I’ve just left him. He’s gone there with the pistols, and he can shoot straight—terribly straight.” “Then it isn’t a joke?” “A joke! He’ll kill you. Oh, Harrington, you must fly—get away—hide somewhere. Look: it’s Saturday night. I’ll let you know if it’s safe to come back on Monday—but you must go now.” “By God, if it’s like that, I will,” gasped May, and reached for his coat and hat. “You won’t face him?” “I’m not looking for a funeral. Thanks for telling me.” As he clattered down the corridor, Blanche called the word “coward” after his retreating form.